An Umbrella, not a Sword
by Imogen74
Summary: Mycroft attempts to open Sherlock's eyes in relation to Molly...instead he sees more than he bargained for. Writing in an effort to fill the Mollcroft gap. Rated T.
1. Chapter 1

It's always been a problem.

Umbrella.

Tea.

Suit.

Phone.

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office. A very nice office, to be sure, but an office. An office which sadly served as an allegory for the rest of his life.

Dark…stagnant…erratically dusty.

The wood was lush, it was deep, a presage of inner turmoil.

And with what tumult his mind did wander…

His brother, so ludicrous in his life, haphazardly meandering through the labyrinth of London's streets with a doctor in tow.

Silly business.

Necessarily ridiculous.

Mycroft was distracted, and that was never good.

Distraction from work yielded messes he would need to see to, and whatever disaster would lay waste to his carefully formulated puzzle of governance.

He turned to the desktop computer and returned a few emails.

He sipped his tea.

Get up, Mycroft…be done.

He did. He was.

He went to the cafe he never admitted frequenting and sat in a corner far away from the horde of Londoners ordering their silly drinks with a desperation reserved only for those whose lives were mired with nonsensical concerns.

And then he spied someone he recognized.

That person…that woman who works at the morgue…

She was a fascinating person in her own right; mousy and unthreatening, and a complete idiot when it came to Sherlock.

But she would go back for more, and Myrcoft pitied her.

And then she saw him, and he blanched a bit…it was as though she had heard his thoughts. But no…she smiled at him and approached.

"Hi…Mycroft, is it?" she said.

He stood. "It is, yes…and you are Molly Hooper."

"Good memory."

"It comes with the territory, as they say."

Molly nodded. "Mind if I join you?"

Mycroft held his hand out in a welcoming gesture and sat down.

She smiled and sipped her drink. "I haven't seen you here before…"

"I do not frequent cafes."

"Why not?"

"Normally the clientele is lacking…" and he smiled.

Molly laughed. "Well…sometimes the patrons are a bit much. Loud…annoying…"

"Just so," he replied. "Seen Sherlock lately?"

Molly shook her head. "No…I suppose he hasn't needed any help, bodies or whatever…"

"Does my brother often need bodies, as you say?"

She blushed a bit. "I…well…he does need them for experimental purposes."

Mycroft nodded. "And you see to his needs."

"Only insofar as I don't get into trouble or it helps in a case he's working on."

"You are very accommodating and kind."

Molly shrugged. "Not really."

"No?"

"No more so than you," she observed, and instantly regretted it. "I mean…I know…I know how much you've helped him."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Do not trouble yourself, Molly. I help my brother quite often. He requires a babysitter…or three or four."

Molly laughed. "He is something."

"And what that something is, we have yet to discover."

She laughed once more. "Sherlock never told me that you were funny."

"Perhaps he doesn't think so," and Mycroft downed his tea.

"How couldn't he?"

"One never knows what goes on in that head of his…though he isn't as enigmatic as he fancies himself to be."

Molly played with her spoon. "I dunno…he is rather fascinating…"

"Only incidentally so."

"Was it odd growing up with him?" she asked hesitantly.

Mycroft's face grew a bit dark, a strange look passed his visage. "Not as odd as it was for him growing up with me…" and he winked at her.

Molly giggled.

The time passed quickly, and Molly decided it was time to leave, they had been sitting for a while now, and she needed to get home to Toby.

"Thanks for the company, Mycroft. It was more than interesting."

He nodded and stood as she did. "My pleasure, Molly. Have a good evening."

Mycroft watched her leave and headed out himself.

He sighed and retrieved his umbrella.

What did his brother want with her, anyway? To toy with?

She was much too nice a person to be so ill-used.

He should visit Sherlock and casually bring her up in conversation.

And he set out to do just that.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I must say, I'm rather surprised at the response this little story has received...so I'll forge forward __with it. Thanks to everyone reading, reviewing, following, and favoriting!_

* * *

"What you require, Mrs. Hudson, is a cat. You are of the age where a cat is a reasonable and expected addition to your life," Sherlock was saying as Mycroft entered 221B.

"Sherlock, I don't understand why you're always so rude…who was your mother, anyway?"

Mycroft was standing in the doorway now. "Violet, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was her favorite, though as you can see, that did little to quell his rudeness."

"Well…I'd like to chat with her," Mrs. Hudson was muttering as she left the flat. "Tell her what I think of her youngest boy and his suggestions."

Mycroft smiled and went to the sofa. He leaned his umbrella against it and sat back, crossing his legs.

"So, brother. It appears you mean to stay a while," Sherlock couldn't mask the disappointment in his voice, nor did he mean to.

"Tea would be a welcome addition to my current state, Sherlock."

"You know where the kettle is," and the detective sat at his laptop.

Mycroft sighed and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "And are you working on a case, Sherlock?"

"Nope."

"Is it a secret?"

Sherlock smiled. "No, but that doesn't mean I care to share my business with you, Mycroft."

"Where's John?"

"Out."

"With Mary?"

"Dunno…why are you here, Mycroft? I'm fresh out of biscuits, and unless there is something of great importance, I'd rather you rig an election or scare some babies."

Mycroft poured himself some tea. "I happened to run into a friend of yours."

"Friend?" this gave him pause. Friend, indeed.

"Yes. Molly Hooper."

"Ah, yes. Molly," and he turned back to his laptop.

"Quite. She is a rather sad sort, Sherlock."

"Yes, but she isn't always so…and I think that her ridding herself of that dreadful Tom fellow was one of the best decisions she ever made."

Mycroft sat next to him. "You should exercise some kindness around her, brother. She likes you very much."

Sherlock looked up. "Why do you care?"

"I don't. I'm merely observing that she is preoccupied with you, and it would do her good if you weren't dreadful to her."

"What did she say to you, exactly?"

"Merely that she thought you interesting," and Mycroft sipped the tea. "Where do you purchase your tea, Sherlock?"

"I don't…it's always just there when I need it." And he pulled away from the table. "Where did you see her?"

"A cafe."

"A cafe."

"That's right…why?"

"You never go to cafes. What is wrong with Mycroft?" and he stood. "Obtaining tea at a cafe, engaging in conversation with lonely pathologists…?"

"Nothing is the matter with me, Sherlock. I'm offering you food for thought. Take it or leave it," and he stood, took his umbrella, and made for the door. "Give my best to John."

Mycroft left 221B without looking back and got into the black car.

He headed home.

Into his flat he went, and walked over to the bar which housed his alcoholic libation; though this was not something he normally indulged in, he thought, perhaps tonight…

No.

Silly thought.

He went to bed, thinking of his brother and how infuriating he could be.

* * *

Sherlock walked into the morgue with purpose and noise, yet without a John Watson behind him as per usual.

"Hey, Sherlock. No John?" Molly asked.

"No, not today, Molly. He's at the clinic…and he had a rather late night with the baby," and he sat at the table next to where Molly was working.

"Oh," and her look betrayed a hint of confusion, but she set back to work.

"My brother told me he happened to run into you the other day."

"Yes, that's true. At the cafe just down the street," and Molly looked up. "Why?"

"No reason…" and Sherlock got up from the chair. "Molly, I…" he paused. "I'll be needing an ear the next time it is convenient."

She nodded. "Yeah, ok. I'll remember."

Sherlock offered her a crooked smiled and dashed out the door.

Maybe fascinating was too strong a word.

Odd and weird were terms better suited for the stubbornly attractive man Molly tried desperately to stop thinking about.

* * *

Mycroft entered the office of the Prime Minister.

Tiresome business, being summoned like a child.

He nodded and added his "Hmmms," to the questions leveled at him.

This man was a complete idiot. He had no idea that Mycroft already had calculated the many workings of the French leader, the reaction of the Spanish in relation to the mess in eastern Europe, and the reaction of the union leaders at home. He was more concerned at present with the Scots, and he thought that the Prime Minister should be, too.

He offered his advice, and desiring nothing more than to be done, stood when the man was mid-sentence, and told him he had much to be getting on with.

Though it couldn't be said that Mycroft had been rude, per se, he certainly wasn't being as accommodating as per usual.

Why was that?

He was tired, his mind whispered.

Old.

No…not old…just tired.

Perhaps he required a holiday.

What utter rubbish!

A holiday, indeed.

Mycroft Holmes didn't take holidays.

He worked.

And worked.

_That _was what he did.

And babysat his younger brother.

"No…I think that the Prime Minister would be delighted at the prospect," he paused. "No…of course I didn't mean that. Sarcasm mean anything to you?" he was on the phone. "See to it, then."

Mycroft rose from his desk and sighed.

There was a knock, and he looked at the door.

"Anything else, sir?" asked Anthea.

"No, that'll be all…" he looked at the window, adorned with heavy drapes. So heavy, indeed, that nary a chink of light could be spotted. He couldn't ascertain if it was light from the sun, the moon, or a street lamp. "What time is it?"

"After 7, sir…I have an appointment at 7, so I thought…" Anthea blushed a touch.

"An appointment?" he looked at her, and nodded. "Best not keep him waiting." He smiled.

Anthea closed the door behind her.

He put his overcoat on, grabbed his umbrella, and left.

Mycroft arrived at his flat and he poured himself a brandy.

He sat at his piano and sipped.

He should really break out that violin, but it was too tucked away for him to bother.

And as he played, he realized just how much everything had become too much a bother.

Yes, he needed to get away for a short while.

Perhaps a long weekend would set him to right.

* * *

"Um, no…a latte, not a cappucino…I'm pretty certain that I told you that," Molly was standing in the cafe, ordering her drink. They had mucked it up again, and she thought that this would definitely be the last time she bothered with the place.

Except that she knew it wouldn't be.

She was a fierce creature of habit.

"Fine, miss, but you'll need to pay for both," replied the cashier.

"What? But it was your mistake…"

"She won't be paying for either, young man. You shall make her the drink she ordered, toss the other, and both will be complimentary," said an authoritative voice just behind her.

"Mycroft?" Molly smiled.

"Hello, Molly."

She was handed a drink with a side of a scowl, and she waited for Mycroft to order.

He obtained his beverage, and turned toward her. "Well…have a good day."

"Wait…do you have a minute? I always sit for a few minutes before heading to work…it'd be lovely if you joined me…"

"I…" he hesitated. "Of course."

They went to the same table they had occupied a week ago.

And fell easily into conversation.

"It must be something, having so much power and responsibility. I don't think that I could ever do that," Molly marveled at his job.

"One merely requires a disciplined mind."

"I think one requires a bit more than that."

"Hardly, Molly…if you can juggle a few things simultaneously in any given situation, you can accomplish my job with relative ease."

Molly looked at him with a contentious glance. "You undermine your abilities."

He smiled. "I am merely hesitant to indulge in pride."

She shrugged. "Pride isn't all that bad, if you're not annoying about it."

"Ah, but that is a subjective term…what one person finds annoying, another may not. For example, I find a certain consulting detective annoying in the extreme. You find him fascinating."

Molly coughed on her drink.

"Apologies, Molly," he muttered. "Perhaps that was untoward."

She smiled. "It's ok…" she sought to change the subject. "Do you ever get time off with such a demanding job?"

Odd, that. He had just been ruminating on that very thing. "Not usually…"

"Never?"

"Well, I never inquired."

Molly's face fell. "You've never _asked_ for time off?

"No…I mean, there are the Christmas holidays I occasionally have…but other than that…"

"That's ridiculous. That should be illegal or something," she paused. "Isn't it? Illegal, I mean."

"Not with my position."

Molly adopted an assertive manner. "You should, today. Ask to have a short leave…just for a few days or something."

Mycroft laughed. "A short leave."

"Yes."

He cleared his throat and finished his drink. "Perhaps you're right. A couple of days away from things has been seeming rather attractive."

"Of course it is. Everyone needs a break, and then you are all the more refreshed, and able to perform your job more effectively," she finished proudly. Molly looked at her watch. "I should get going…I'll," she got up, and looked at Mycroft. "I guess I'll see you here again sometime?"

He got up and nodded. "Indeed…and I shall take your advice, Molly…"

She smiled. "Good," and turned and left.

Mycroft went up to the counter to obtain another beverage.

What would they say at Downing Street when he inquired about a leave?

He laughed at the thought, and left the cafe.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly Hooper.

Such a drab little name, she thought. So fitting that she worked in a morgue.

She took the scalpel, and she made her deft incision down the front of the cadaver.

And she set to the business of removing the innards for examination.

Pretty morbid stuff.

She should seek therapy, for not only was her job utterly dismal, her name was ridiculously drably cheerful.

An oxymoron.

Just like her bright jumpers in a gloomy morgue.

It was a plight she struggled with constantly. She had a very dark side…she masked it well with her wardrobe and her smile.

But it was her melancholy which drew her to Sherlock Holmes…he was dark, she felt it. Any addict had a hint of the macabre in their soul.

She longed to be cheerful…she wanted it so much that she made her outward self so.

But she couldn't conceal it altogether…it was too part of her makeup to erase it.

And so Molly smiled.

But inside, she sighed.

* * *

"Mycroft Holmes, I don't understand the question," David Cameron, Prime Minister, somewhat in charge of things in the United Kingdom, asked as he looked steadily at his interlocutor.

"I am requesting a few days off from work…I shall retain my mobile, but I should like three or four days wherein I am not expected to come into the office."

Mr. Cameron laughed. "Well, Mycroft, I must admit, I never thought I'd see the day. Yes…take four. But do, as you say, keep your mobile on and handy," he paused. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I have no fixed plans," replied Mycroft, leaving the office.

He went to his own office and began to see to arrangements while he was away.

Mycroft had decided that he would be leaving a week from Friday...it was Tuesday...plenty of time to see to things.

He hoped that the world wouldn't fall to ruin in his absence…

* * *

Sherlock was playing his violin…its sound banked along the walls of 221B.

He was in his dressing gown, and he was thinking of his brother.

He disliked occupying his mind thus, but he felt pressed…Mycroft had been behaving oddly. Perhaps he was undergoing some sort of strange midlife crisis.

It would be unlike him to fall victim to such a common ailment of age…though he thought momentarily of him on a motorcycle, and that made him smile.

Mycroft.

On a motorcycle.

He set the instrument down.

"You shouldn't stop, Sherlock…it was rather good."

Speak of the devil…

"My musical proclivity has always been impressive…especially if one compares it to your own paltry attempts," and he turned.

Mycroft was leaning on his umbrella in the doorway. "Evening, brother. And how are we this evening?"

"Why do you care, Mycroft?"

"It is a common and natural thing to inquire after another person, especially if one is related," and he entered the room.

"How are _you _brother? You have been out of sorts."

"I have not," and he sat.

"Cafes…concern over my treatment of Molly…"

"Is abhorrent."

Sherlock then sat. "Yes. Perhaps…but why does it concern you?"

"I cannot say, except that I read something sad in her eyes, and because she admires you, it would be efficacious for you to curb your treatment of her."

"Precisely my point. It is unlike you to read anything in anyone, let alone someone like Molly," and Sherlock leaned back, his fingers steepled.

"Well, there you are wrong, Sherlock…it is my job to read people. And I do so with resounding success."

"But it is not your modus operandi to behave thus independent of work."

Mycroft smiled. "How would you know…perhaps I am always working…"

Sherlock nodded, admitting his point.

So Myrcoft pressed on. "It is fortuitous that this subject has been broached, for I just today submitted a request for time off."

The detective's eyes widened a touch. "You did what?"

"I am taking time off this coming weekend…four days. I should prefer to be left undisturbed."

"You. You are taking time off."

"That's right."

And Sherlock stood, and went into the kitchen, putting on the kettle. "What has sparked this behavior, brother?"

Mycroft twirled the umbrella a bit between his fingers. "Ah, well…a bit of fatigue…and then Molly suggested it."

Sherlock's back muscles became taut. Ah…"Molly, you say?"

"Yes."

He brought in the tea. "Molly suggested that you take time off?"

"Yes, as I said…but the thought had already planted its seed…she merely watered it, as it were."

"Indeed."

"Yes," and he downed the tea. "So…I will have my mobile, should a need arise…and I'll contact you Monday evening, upon my return," he rose.

"Where are you going?"

Mycroft smiled. "I haven't the faintest idea."

* * *

Molly was in the canteen reading a book.

She loved old romances…she was reading _Emma_ for the third time.

"Afternoon, Molly," said a deep voice.

She looked up. "Oh! Hi, Sherlock," he really had no scruples. She was on break…couldn't this wait?

He sat down. "What are you reading?"

Seriously?

"Jane Austen."

He nodded. "Molly…" he began. "Have you been in contact with Mycroft?"

"No. Why?"

"He's taking a holiday."

Molly's eyes lit up. "Is he really? That's brilliant."

"And very unlike him."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, in and of itself…but I would think that it would occur in smaller spurts…you know…his diet is suddenly successful, so he takes to walking to work. He enjoys the vigor of a constitutional, so he begins to abandon his driver in favor of his newfound exercise. He wishes to change the scenery of his walks, so he goes away for the day…something like that."

Molly smirked. "Got it all figured, have you?"

"Apparently not, as he's skipped over the necessary steps and gone straight to a full-fledged holiday."

"Only necessary in your opinion," was her retort. "I think it's lovely. Good for him. He needs it."

Sherlock smiled. "How would you know what Mycroft needs, Molly Hooper?"

His voice had fallen, and she returned his gaze warily. "Um, well…I…"

Sherlock laughed. "That was rhetorical, Molly," he got up. "I'll see you later…"

"Why? Have a case on?"

"No…but I'll see you nevertheless."

What the bloody hell was that.

* * *

Molly was leaving the cafe, latte in hand, when she saw Mycroft leaning against a jet black car.

She smiled, and went over to where he was standing.

"Hi Mycroft! Not going in today?"

"No…I need to return to the office…much to see to…but I wanted to offer you my thanks."

"What for?"

"For insisting that I take time off. I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Oh! Where are you going?"

He shuffled his feet, and looked down. "Paris."

"Wow."

"Yes."

Molly smiled. "Well, _that's _quite a holiday."

"It is…I have a mind to see the Louvre…perhaps enjoy some wine…"

"Sounds lovely," and she meant it.

"Yes…so. Thank you for your suggestion…" and he turned, and got into the car. "You know, you should, perhaps, heed your own advice…I daresay you deserve a holiday as well, Molly."

She shrugged. "Maybe…but I take time off…and I never feel guilty. Have a wonderful time, Mycroft!"

She turned and began to walk toward St. Bart's.

And Mycroft drove away, anticipating a rather long evening in front of him.

* * *

"Sir," Anthea said into the intercom. "Your brother is here to see you."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes…?"

"Send him in," this was unexpected, though not utterly surprising.

He entered in his usual dramatic manner. "Mycroft…you're leaving tomorrow, I recall?"

"I am."

"Where?'"

"Paris."

Sherlock nodded. "Paris…well…I have taken your advice, and I wanted you to know, before you left, that I have been exercising some more kindness toward Molly and shall continue in that vein during your absence."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised in mild interest. "I am glad to hear it, Sherlock."

"Yes…so you needn't concern yourself with her any longer."

"I'm sorry?"

"She is well in hand."

"Is she indeed?" he paused. "Sherlock…I'm not certain what it is that you think is going on here…one never knows what conspiracies you formulate in that mind of yours…but I've seen Molly a total of three times, all at the cafe, and every interlude was quite innocent. Your guilt, perhaps, has mired your reason, and you are running wild in your assumptions."

Sherlock laughed. "Mycroft, brother, my dear dear man…I had never suggested that anything was happening…that was _your _supposition. But it does give one pause, that that was where your mind went…"

Mycroft Holmes sighed, rolled his eyes, got up, rounded to the front of his desk, and leaned against it. He folded his hands on front of him. "Understand, Sherlock, I am tired. I wish only to see a museum or two and eat out at a restaurant. Everything that has transpired between your pathologist and myself has been friendly…and that is where it ends. If _you_, brother mine, care to pursue something…" he paused. "Less than innocent, shall we say…? By all means. Go to it."

"You are ridiculous," and he flipped up the collar on his Belstaff. "Enjoy your pastries. I'll speak with you on Monday," and he left.

Mycroft laughed.

He sat back down at his desk, and he finished up the tedious business of emailing….

* * *

The room was nice enough.

It wasn't overdone…he had seen to that…he wished for something simple in style and decor.

Mycroft left the room to enjoy a walk.

When was the last time he had been so unburdened?

He honestly couldn't say…

And the sweet smell of Paris rain hinted itself in the air…

The many hues of the city rippled the light in a prism of luminescence.

A melody played on the pulse of atmosphere…

It was as lovely a scene as he had ever beheld.

And the clouds broke, filling the place with warm water, saturating the blooms already heavy in their girth.

And Mycroft Holmes laughed…for he had forgotten his umbrella.


	4. Chapter 4

Paris, when one thinks about it, is not known for any particular restorative properties. It has no innate opiate for melancholy, no tonic for soul-soothing, no panacea for a downtrodden frame.

Yet Mycroft, upon his return to London, was decidedly more upbeat. No, he wasn't a different person altogether, no…he hadn't altered his makeup such that he was unrecognizable, but he was refreshed, and it revealed itself in his step and the tenor of his voice.

He had texted, not called, his brother when he arrived back at his flat (much to Sherlock's surprise and Mycroft's delight that he had caught his brother unawares with his text as opposed to an actual call), and sat on his posh sofa in his posh flat and downed a posh libation.

How delightful Paris was! It almost made up for the hateful French inhabitants, who were, Mycroft noted, most pleasant and accommodating during his stay. Yes, he might alter his opinion somewhat of the French. And their pastries were delightful. That in and of itself deserved a reconsideration.

That night, he dreamed…and Mycroft Holmes never recalled his dreams…but there it was, a dream of his childhood home, of his office at work, and of him drinking a latte, which he never had tried.

"Are quite certain that this is a proper latte?" Mycroft asked the barista with a hint of doubt.

"Yes sir. I make about 75 of them daily," was his cheeky retort.

Mycroft raised his chin and looked down his nose at the boy. Boy, yes. No more than 24. "One never knows, young man. I have it on good authority that the baristas in this establishment muck up coffee drinks with startling regularity."

The man rolled his eyes and smiled. "That, I assure you sir, is a latte."

Mycroft nodded and turned away, and with a look of doubt painted on his countenance, he held up the drink and looked at it with a discerning and mistrustful eye.

"It won't bite you, Mycroft, even if it isn't a proper drink," said Molly, watching him from the line with a positively amused look.

His face softened a touch, and he smiled, going over to her. "Have you had success with these since that unfortunate one made its way into your hands last week?"

Molly looked at him crookedly as the line moved forward. "Yeah…but it's just coffee, you know. Maybe, if you're not used to them, you should try just a regular coffee with milk and sugar."

"No, it must be a latte."

"Why?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. Such silly business, following some silly suggestion in a dream, and he wouldn't suffer the ridicule from the admission. "No reason in particular, merely following the advice of an acquaintance."

"You're doing that a lot lately," and Molly reached the counter, placing her order.

"Indeed, I suppose that I am."

"Well, are you in an awful rush? I'd love to hear about your holiday."

He indicated that he wasn't, and sending a text to Anthea, sat at their (as he now thought of it) table.

Molly came over and sat down. "So…how was it, then?"

"It was…lovely," he began. "I have never, in my life Molly, been more at ease than I was there. The air, so succulent. The food, sweet and fresh. There were blooms to be found everywhere…and the rain is so fleeting, that the place is almost constantly wet from it."

"Wow."

"Indeed. But the rain is nearly always light, and offers merely a fresh cleanse, a quick baptism. The museums, so extensive…" and he continued thus for a full 20 minutes.

And Molly was held rapt. "And you'd never been to Paris before?"

"Only on business."

"So, I suppose that didn't afford much time for recreation," she observed.

"No…hardly. I had never been to the Louvre in the countless times I visited."

Molly nodded and smiled. "That's really great, Mycroft. I'm so happy for you."

He looked at her steadily. "Tell me, has Sherlock been around? How has he been?"

Molly played a bit with her cup. "He has…he's been fine," and Molly couldn't ascertain whether he was asking because he had some unnamed concern, or something else.

He nodded. "And has he a case on?"

"No, oddly enough, he had popped by twice during your trip, and he brought me coffee one of those times."

"Indeed? That was uncharacteristically generous of him."

"He can be generous, when he thinks of it," Molly said softly.

"Can he?" he looked at her with doubt.

"I suppose that you know him better, Mycroft, but yes. I have known some kindness from him, and it felt genuine enough," she was slightly curt in her reply.

"Apologies, Molly. I meant no offense."

"No need to apologize. I understand that the two of you have a…difficult…? Is that fair? …relationship."

Mycroft sniggered. "Yes, that's fair. More than fair, actually. We have always been at one another. But I do love him, and I know that he reciprocates, despite his protests."

"He does. He has an odd way about him."

"That, Miss Hooper, is an understatement in the extreme," and he smiled widely.

Molly laughed. "You aren't what I'd call normal, either, you know…not that that's bad, mind you," she added, in fear of offense.

"You are very kind," but his reply was warm. "Well, I should be off. It was, as always, a pleasure, Molly," and he stood, taking his leave.

Molly nodded, said goodbye, and looked at her mobile. She had a few more minutes before she needed to leave.

She sighed. She should go away, too. Mycroft seemed so refreshed and relaxed and just lovely. She could do with a bit of loveliness in her life.

She thought about where she would go off to. Where would be a lovely retreat?

Cornwall?

Bath?

Edinburgh?

She couldn't afford someplace as nice as Paris…but then, she didn't need to go to that extreme to obtain refreshment. She had simple taste.

Yes, Molly thought. She would research those places and come up with a plan for a long weekend.

* * *

Molly was in the canteen scrolling through her mobile.

Bath seemed kind of boring.

Edinburgh was far…but appeared to be lovely. Bit expensive.

Cornwall was by the coast…she had been there before. She had enjoyed it.

Maybe someplace new. Edinburgh had much to recommend it.

"Molly…I need you to see to that ear. Recall? I asked you last week about it…?"

"Hi Sherlock," Molly said, without looking up. "I'm on break right now. If you like, you can get it out of storage yourself, or you'll need to wait until I'm finished."

"Wait?" he sounded dumbfounded.

"Yes," and Molly looked up and smiled. "I'm on break."

Sherlock sat opposite her. "But…this is important, Molly."

"So is my break."

He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. "Honestly, what is so important that you can't take five…"

"My break, Sherlock, is very important, especially to me. And since I am the one doing you a favor, I rather think that you can wait the 15 minutes for my break to be over, and then I'll get you your bloody ear," she finished heatedly.

His lips pursed in frustration. "Very well, Molly."

She smiled and nodded. "Ever been to Edinburgh, Sherlock?" and she went back to her phone.

"Why?"

"I'm thinking of going."

"Pardon?"

"Edinburgh."

He sighed. "I heard you…but you mean to relocate, or merely take a trip?"

"I'm not looking to move. Just a short holiday."

"Why is everyone so eager to take holidays all of a sudden? Is there something in London's water that all of its inhabitants are making an exodus for long weekends? What has happened to our work ethic?"

Molly looked up at him during his diatribe. When he was through, she laughed. "Oh, Sherlock. Come on. Everyone needs a break."

"What for? Besides, you are on a break currently. Why do you require more?"

Molly's mouth hung agape. "Are you serious."

"I'm always serious, Molly."

She shook her head. "I dunno, Sherlock. Because I'm human. Because my work is sad. Because I'd like to see more than the basement of a hospital for a bit. Because…because there is more to see and do than what I see and do day in and day out."

He shrugged. "Maybe it's your job, then. Perhaps it isn't as rewarding as it once was."

"I love my job! But it, just like everything, gets monotonous. I know that _you_ understand boredom, Sherlock Holmes."

He looked at her. Yes, if there was one human emotion, or state, or whatever, that he understood, it was boredom. Yes…he could ignore hunger, thirst, fatigue, even nicotine fits, but boredom, no. No he couldn't. "Ah, yes. That I can, Molly."

"Yes."

He considered her. "Run into Mycroft today?"

"I did," and her eyes fell. "Though I don't see what that has to do with…"

"The two of you are working in tandem to assure the other obtain rest and recreation."

"You're a strange person," and Molly got up. Her break was over.

"I am. But not because of that observation," and he followed her.

"Why does it concern you, Sherlock?"

"Because he is my brother, and you are my pathologist."

Molly shook her head and left the canteen for the lab.

"What's more, Mycroft doesn't take holidays, nor does he frequent cafes, nor does he speak with pathologists," he was saying, keeping up with her quick pace.

"But he speaks with scientists of other sorts, pathologists are somehow exempt from his company?"

Sherlock laughed, but resumed his manner quickly, and they entered the lab. "He dosen't engage in friendly conversation with anyone, Molly. He isn't friendly."

"Family trait?" and she opened the drawer containing his ear.

"I am offended. Did I or did I not bring you coffee just the other day?"

Molly stood erect and handed him the bag. "You did. Bravo, Sherlock. How long have we known one another? Seven years? Six? And you brought me coffee one time. _That_ is quite an accomplishment."

"Your sarcasm isn't lost on me, Molly Hooper," and he smirked at her.

"I should hope not. Was that all?"

"I think so," and he turned and left with his usual pomp.

What an asshole.

* * *

Mycroft was able to concentrate that day at work with relative ease.

He felt as though he was seeing his work with new vision and purpose.

But there was a tug at him that he couldn't account for.

Perhaps it was that dream…he never recalled his dreams, and it was irksome that he happened to remember this one, especially since it seemed wildly insignificant.

Wildly insignificant.

He laughed.

He thought of the latte.

It wasn't half bad.

And he felt as though he just betrayed his entire country with that admission.


	5. Chapter 5

"You know, I honestly don't understand why this is so difficult. It's espresso with steamed milk, not foam," Molly was complaining to the utterly inept barista. "And as I understand it, a latte is much more easy to prepare, you'd think you's prefer it to a cappucino."

"Sorry, miss…I must have misunderstood the direction," he opined.

"Whatever," and Molly shook her head.

She took the beverage and headed out of the cafe.

Molly was pissed. She had gotten into a heated argument with Mike about her taking time off, which was ridiculous, in her opinion. She was a very reliable worker, she took her job seriously, and she resented the fact that any argument had ensued at all on the subject.

Her footfalls were heavy in her agitation as she reached her flat's entrance.

Molly had begun to pack for Edinburgh, and she was anxious to get on with it.

She headed up the stairs and noticed a large envelope laying on the floor in front of her door.

_Ms. Molly Hooper_, it declared, so she opened it.

Inside were rail tickets, to and from Edinburgh.

A pamphlet containing pictures of the place.

A list of restaurants.

$1,000 pounds, cash.

And a set of keys, one looked like a house key, the other appeared to be for an automobile.

No note.

What the…?

Molly's head turned around quickly…

Silly. The giver wasn't still there.

Molly opened the door to her flat and walked in.

She didn't know many people…fewer who would offer her such kindness…

But perhaps if the giver was in such a position to offer her such extravagance, to stealthily get into her building and leave it there outside of her door…

Would Mycroft really do such a thing? They hardly knew one another.

But it made sense, really. Perhaps this sort of thing wasn't a big deal for him. Perhaps he did something like this for many acquaintances…

Because honestly, that's all she was. An acquaintance.

Molly went to see to the packing.

But her mind was on the envelope.

She filled her bag.

She took a shower…

She was leaving tomorrow.

Molly took the sweater from the hook and left the flat for Downing Street.

She would never be able to go without knowing if Mycroft was behind this…

* * *

"No, I'm not going to repeat myself. See to it, or I'll be seeing your resignation," Mycroft spoke with a hint of anger into the phone. He sighed.

People could be so incredibly exhausting…

"Sir…a young woman is here to see you," Anthea's voice rang out.

"Young woman?"

And Molly walked in. "Hi Mycroft."

"Molly, this is an unexpected surprise."

"Is it?" she asked with a hint of doubt.

He looked crookedly at her. "Well, yes. Did we have an arrangement I have forgotten?"

"I doubt that you'd forget something like a meeting," and she sat down.

Mycroft sat as well, and looked at her expectantly. "I suppose you're right about that," he paused. "Are you here for something in particular?"

"Did you leave something at my flat?"

Ah. She was a clever girl. "I did."

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose that I thought you might appreciate some help with your holiday."

"That's very sweet, Mycroft. I do appreciate it, but I think it was a bit much."

"Indeed? How so?"

Molly returned his gaze with a hint of doubt. "Seriously? $1,000 pounds? A car? A house? I have those things arranged…"

"I was merely attempting to make your stay as comfortable as possible," he said defensively.

"And that's lovely, but I cannot accept it," and she handed him the envelope.

"It's nothing, Molly. Please do take it. You have no idea how little needed doing to see to these things. I was happy to accommodate you…"

Molly stood. "But you have no idea how uncomfortable it would be for me to accept them."

Mycroft swallowed. He had only intended to show her a bit of kindness, to be generous where he seldom was, and somehow, he had mucked it up. "Very well," and he took the envelope. "But do stay at the house. It is lovely," and he gave her the key back and the address.

She smiled a bit. She had no intention of being ungrateful. "Ok. Thank you, Mycroft," and she turned to leave. "I'll see you next week sometime, I guess."

He nodded and she left.

He hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable, he only wanted to make her smile, since he felt like she seldom did so.

* * *

Molly opened the door to the little house Mycroft had arranged for her.

Wow. It was lovely.

The walls were whitewashed, and delicate furniture was to be found around the place. It was a time out of mind place, she thought, and she went upstairs to put her things away.

A small wooden bed was in the bedroom, and old wallpaper on the walls.

It looked like an old lady had loved it once, and saw to its care with meticulous attention.

Molly went over to the window, and opened it.

Under the bedroom was a garden, and heavy redolence lifted to her face. Molly sighed and breathed it in.

Yes.

She would be comfortable here.

The first full day of her stay was Saturday, and she headed into town to find a cafe.

The barista successfully prepared her latte, and Molly sat with her book, but her mind drifted, it was untamed in Edinburgh, having experienced wild dreams the night previous.

Sherlock filled her thoughts.

She must be such a glutton for punishment. Why did he haunt her so?

He misused her.

He treated her with unabashed sarcasm.

And though he had apologized to her a handful of times, he always reverted back to his old habits.

Molly deserved better.

She winced.

Sometimes, she thought she got exactly what she deserved, for she was nothing special, and nothing special yielded unremarkable reactions from others.

Damn Sherlock and his intoxicating mind, a mind which she could never hope to captivate.

She headed back to the house.

But Mycroft had been kind and attentive.

And she smiled.

Bit too attentive, she thought.

Molly went to the kitchen and poured herself some water.

Why should she continue her blind adoration for someone who has no desire to return her emotions? Why should she punish herself so?

And it was punishment, dwelling on such an impossible man with impossible habits in an equally impossible situation.

She decided to abandon it.

There and then, Molly Hooper shed her skin. She resolved not to be so blind to his charm, however dubious. Not be taken in with his odd attractiveness, however intoxicating. Not to be a bumbling fool, despite her proclivity for such a state.

And the remainder of her time spent in the tiny house in Edinburgh was a peaceful one, filled with flowers, with lattes, and with an unburdened mind.

* * *

"Morning, Molly. Pleasant holiday?" Sherlock glided into the morgue.

"Very."

"Excellent. I have the need to see this body," and he handed her a slip of paper.

"Is this for a case?"

"Yes…but not for Scotland Yard," and he sat on a stool.

Molly nodded and looked up from her work, taking the paper. "Alright. Give me a minute."

He cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him. "And how was Edinburgh?"

She looked at him with a hint of doubt. "Um, it was lovely…"

"I'm not very good at this sort of thing, Molly, engaging in pleasantries and such, but I hope that you recognize the effort and that you appreciate that I am trying to be a bit more…amiable where you are concerned."

Molly stared at him a moment. "Ah, sure, Sherlock…I guess…" and she turned to obtain the body.

"It is not in my nature to behave in this way, but my brother did bring to my attention that I have been rather unfeeling," he winced at the word. "And I am attempting to rectify that."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," she paused. "Here's Mr. Miller, as you asked."

"Well, acknowledgment for my pains wouldn't go amiss."

"It's painful for you to exercise kindness?"

"It's out of character, so painful in a way," and he went and leaned over the cadaver.

Molly laughed.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"Oh come on, Sherlock. You are being dramatic."

And the term "drama queen" emerged into his mind. "I resent that."

"You can resent it all you like," Molly returned, going back to her work. "That doesn't change the fact that it's silly for you to expect me to make a big deal out of a few days of your more kind attentions after years of abuse."

"Abuse!" he was offended.

"Yes, I think that that's a fair term," she replied not looking at him.

"Abuse," he muttered. He began to examine the cadaver's fingertips. He then shot upright. "Have you ever seen me treat anyone any different from anyone else, Molly?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean to say, have you ever seen me be kind to anyone?"

Molly considered this and turned toward him. "No…not really."

"Just so. In fact, I'd wager that I've been more kind to you than anyone. Maybe even John."

"So…all the same for everyone?"

"Precisely."

Molly chucked. "How very Henry Higgins of you, Sherlock."

"I don't understand the correlation."

"Read Pygmalion and get back to me."

* * *

That night, Sherlock Holmes read Shaw's play, and by the end he was utterly disgusted. He threw the volume across the room and scowled.

How dare she suggest such a thing!

He wasn't anything like that idiot, nor was he in love with any sort of creation that he didn't create.

There.

More reasons why he wasn't like that loathsome character.

Molly Hooper was mistaken.

This was all Mycroft's doing.

He had changed Molly…_he_ was more like that Higgins character…

And Sherlock paused.

Was Myrcoft falling in love with Molly?

He smirked.

Surely not.

They hardly knew one another.

But it was curious, the attention he gave to her.

Perhaps there was something there.

Sherlock laid his head back on the chair.

How did he feel about this?

Should he feel anything?

Perhaps he should first discern his brother's thoughts, and then decide if and how he would act.

This…this was going to be good fun.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock Holmes never paid his older brother much mind.

He was a maddening, sad sort who only worked to irritate him and squash his attempts at doing his work in a quick and efficient manner.

But now, with the advent of Mycroft's attentions to Molly, this was untenable. He would need to pay attention to Mycroft, for never in the younger Holmes's life had he been witness to his brother actually _caring_ for a person not in the family.

Though it wasn't immediately apparent that Mycroft did care for Molly, the fact that he paid attention to her was certainly indicative of something.

What that something was, Sherlock meant to discover.

And when Sherlock Holmes means to discover something, it almost always is, and he does so with dexterity and brilliance.

(certain misadventures with certain dominatrixes notwithstanding, though that instance was certainly John's fault, and all was well in the end, anyway)

So it was.

He mused quietly…what if his brother actually fancied Molly?

Poor girl.

Though Sherlock was not opposed to the idea. Mycroft indulged enough in creature comforts (see sweet fetish) that such a weakness was completely believable…even expected from such a fragile wretch as Mycroft.

He chuckled softly. Mycroft. And sex.

He winced…if only he could slam the doors of his mind palace with more ferocity.

Sherlock got up from his chair and retrieved his coat.

Poor Molly…

* * *

Mycroft sat at his flat. He loved his flat. In fact, if he loved anything in this world that wasn't his annoying family, it was his flat.

But his flat's charm had staled in recent weeks…withered, like a drooping bloom. Once buoyant and yet calm, the flat which boasted heavy wood of every depth and variety, now closed in on him. The walls shrunk in a loathsome embrace.

Mycroft sipped his brandy; it was a sweet warmth, and he was reminded of a bygone age in his life, splintered from his mind in wrathful tear.

Unlike what his brother had believed, or indeed, what everyone believed about him, Mycroft _had _fallen in love once. And unlike the fairy tale of a man once who loved and lost and never recovered from his pyrrhic sojourn, Mycroft had been happy at its demise. She was a sweet soul…too saccharine, even for his proclivity toward the taste.

And he abandoned her, with a hint of Ebenezer Scrooge in his dismissal (think Belle), and the soft soul was left hardened by his neglect.

He did not regret his leaving her, rather, that she had forsaken love altogether, deciding that a solitary life was preferable to one without Mr. Holmes. This was insupportable, even for Mycroft, and he had visited her in an effort to persuade her that her behavior was foolish.

He had seen her only that once, and she was a dead scowl of her former mirth.

And he was sorry for it.

He was sorry, and that was what separated him from his brother.

Mycroft had loved, he had left, and he was sorry for what he had left in his wake.

Sherlock was not a bad man, but he seldom _felt_ badly for anything he did. Perhaps he never felt that anything he did was worth the trouble of feeling badly.

Or feeling much.

But Mycroft knew that his brother cared…he cared for John.

Mrs. Hudson.

Even that D.I.

And Molly.

And Mycroft would not see his brother suffer the same error he had in his hubris and his ignorance.

Yes…it was ignorance.

If Sherlock cared for Molly, Mycroft would encourage his pursuing it.

If not, he would encourage him to leave her well alone.

He liked the scientist, and he believed her to care for Sherlock a very great deal. She shouldn't be made to feel worse in his sarcasm and neglect.

A knock was heard at his door.

No one knocked on his door.

No one, save his brother.

Damn.

Mycroft heaved a very heavy sigh and rose from his station.

He approached the door slowly, not really wanting to indulge whatever silliness his brother would be bringing with him.

"Mycroft," he said, as the door was opened and he entered.

"Sherlock. What a dubious surprise."

"You say that often in reference to me, brother. Are you never happy to see me?" and he sat, crossing his legs affectedly, and picked up an obliging pen on the table next to him.

"Not especially. No more than anyone else."

"But I'm not just anyone, Mycroft. I am family."

And Mycroft closed the door and sighed. Employment of the term "family" by Sherlock almost never yielded anything good. "Yes…very astute. What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I'm merely here on a friendly visit."

"A friendly visit."

"Yes," and he twirled twirled the pen.

"You don't pay friendly visits."

"But you're family…"

"Especially to family," and he handed him a glass of brandy.

Sherlock took it. "Still indulging, Mycroft?"

"Hardly. A glass of brandy in the evening in my quiet does not demand the term indulging."

"But you dislike alcohol and the escape it affords."

And Mycroft sat across from him. "I never said that."

"At any rate, Mycroft, I was just thinking about you."

"Is that so, Sherlock? Should I be concerned?"

He laughed. "No…but perhaps Molly should be."

"I'm sorry?"

"Molly. Hooper? Pathologist…bit mousy…rather bright…" and he gazed up at the ceiling in thought.

"I know whom you are speaking of. What do you mean that she should be concerned?"

"Because, _brother mine,_ I believe you have designs on her."

And Mycroft sat there, staring at Sherlock for a full minute.

And then he burst into laughter. "Designs?! On Molly Hooper? Oh, Sherlock, you are good for a laugh."

"Why not? Why else would you be paying any attention to her?"

He sucked in a long breath. "Sherlock, I am merely attempting to open your own eyes with regard to her. She fancies you, and you are despicable to her."

"I am no such thing. I brought her coffee…"

"And fetching her coffee does not a friend make."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What do you know of friendship?"

"A bit more than you credit me for."

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft….do not attempt to lie to me. You have sought out her company."

"I have done no such thing."

Sherlock then laughed. "If you insist," and he stood. "You would destroy her, Mycroft. You should leave her alone."

"I want nothing from her…I want merely to allow her some peace of mind."

And the younger Holmes made his way to the door. "If you insist. I do not desire anything from Molly other than lab access. But I'd not like to see her hurt, she is a good sort of person."

And he left.

His brother was a ridiculous man, and he loved him so.

* * *

Molly was stitching up Mr. Potts. He had a sad look on his face, and she had attempted, in some sort of macabre action, to have him smile.

This was not, she decided, a good idea.

He looked now like some sort of demented clown, a la the Joker.

She shuddered and took out the stitches.

It wasn't her place to see to such things, but Molly was tired of everyone being sullen and serious, and she longed to see a smile, however gruesome it was.

The door slammed shut, and she assumed that Mike was entering, or else that inept intern who was always following her around like a puppy.

She could not have been more wrong.

Or more shocked.

"Mycroft?"

"Hello, Molly," and he handed her a cup.

"Thanks…what are you doing here?"

"Well. I was just thinking that I hadn't seen you in a while at the cafe, and perhaps you were missing your latte."

"Really?" and she sipped. "That's very thoughtful."

He nodded. "Molly…are you a romantic?"

She choked. "Excuse me?"

"Apologies…" he handed her a napkin. "I mean…are you at all romantically idealistic when it comes to…ah…relationships of the intimate kind?"

"Ha…" she nervously responded. "Um…not really…?"

"No? I thought not," and he rocked on his heels, apparently pleased with his ability to read her.

"Mind if I ask why?"

"Well…it has come to my attention that someone might be interested in you in that capacity."

"Oh please," and she sat the cup down and turned toward her work.

"I am in earnest, Molly."

She looked at him. "Why?" she whispered.

He appeared taken aback. "Honestly? You don't know why someone might be interested in you?"

"Ah…no. Not really."

"Well…" he hadn't counted on this. "I mean to say…you are rather bright, and you are amusing in your own unique way…not unpleasant to look at…"

"You say the nicest things, Mycroft," her tone was sarcastic.

"I am quite serious!" he paused. "This is rather uncharted…well, at least in quite some time….territory for me, Molly. I'd like to insist that you take me at my word, however."

Molly nodded. "And who, may I ask, is this admirer?"

"I think he'd like to remain anonymous."

She smiled. "Alright. Well, what should I do, now that I know someone fancies me?"

"Nothing, I imagine. I merely thought that…"

"You are a strange sort, Mycroft. Why tell me anything?"

"To ascertain your preferences…"

She shrugged. "Thanks," and she sipped the latte.

"Have a lovely afternoon," and he sauntered out, not unlike his brother.

Molly sighed.

His brother.

What if he meant Sherlock?

Her heart skipped a beat.

No…surely not.

But…who else could he possibly mean?

And Sherlock wasn't one to admit feeling anything, let alone a tug of a romantic sort.

Molly's brow furrowed.

What would she do if it _was_ Sherlock?

Have a fit.

No…she would remain calm and dignified.

Actually, she would likely faint.

But what if it wasn't?

Who else could it possibly be?

It _could _be Mycroft…

No.

Silly idea.

MYCROFT? No way.

He didn't fancy people.

But then, neither did Sherlock…

Lestrade?

Molly laughed.

It had to be one of the Holmes brothers…

And she thought this had to be one of the weirdest things that ever happened to her.

Including that naked pillow fight on the roof at uni.

What if Sherlock _fancied_ her…?

Well, one thing was certain…she wouldn't be wearing any tight black dresses…


	7. Chapter 7

She stirred the soup absentmindedly.

Her mind perseverated on the thought that Sherlock Holmes might, indeed, fancy her. It was insane, the very idea.

But, oh, how much she would love to hear him confess…

She had dreamt of it on more than one occasion.

_"__Molly, there is something I'd like to speak to you about," he said, gliding gracefully to her in the lab._

_"__Yes, Sherlock…of course," she replied, looking stunning, despite the fact that she was in her white lab coat. _

_"__I have so longed to tell you…you are my only desire…my only wish…I am tormented by your smile…please…" and he went to her, taking her face in his hands. "Kiss me, Molly…."_

_And his mouth found hers…._

_And such passion would put that Wesley and Buttercup's from "The Princess Bride," to shame…_

Molly sighed.

Then she snapped out of it.

To think that Sherlock bloody Holmes would ever do such a thing was beyond ridiculous.

She was always reduced to a puddle where he was concerned, despite her self assurance that she would abandon such pursuits.

Her only hope was that she would be easy around him still, despite the lingering suspicion that he fancied her.

"Molly," he began.

"Oh! Um…yeah?" and she looked at the detective hopefully, and with some hesitation.

Sherlock returned her gaze with some dubiety. "Can you hand me that pipette?"

"Oh. Yes…" and she did.

She went to the other side of the lab and held onto the side of the table.

Stop it, Molly. Stop being so silly.

She chided herself for behaving thus, especially since she had no idea if Mycroft had been referencing him…

And she hadn't seen Mycroft since that day…three days ago now.

She cleared her throat and left the lab.

"Hey Mike…!" Molly called from the hall into the office of Mr. Stanford.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna just pop out for a bit, alright?"

"Sure, Molls…"

Molly needed air.

Her mind churned…and she didn't know where she was going.

Imagine, crushing on someone for years, and then being presented with the idea that they might reciprocate?

It was distracting in the extreme.

She found herself, after meandering through London for a bit, at the cafe.

In she walked.

Latte…latte would set things right.

She procured the desired beverage and went to sit at a table.

"Hello, Molly," said a familiar voice.

Mycroft.

"Oh…hey Mycroft," and she smiled. She could ask him about this…he was the one who had started this mental mess.

"Would you care to sit?"

And she nodded, sitting opposite him. "How are you?"

He smiled. "Oh, well enough…work work work. You?"

"Dreadful."

"What? What do you mean?"

Molly cleared her throat. "Mycroft…you recall your visiting me at the lab a few days ago?"

"Of course."

"Yes…well. I've been torturing myself about what you meant by it. You didn't mean Sherlock, did you?"

Mycroft sat back in his chair and considered her.

She didn't appear to be well.

Her brow was furrowed.

Her lip had been chewed.

She was fidgeting more than usual.

He cleared his throat. "It has been my habit heretofore to remain clear of all things personal with regard to my brother," he paused. "Not that there is much to be found in terms of opportunity for such endeavors where he is concerned," he muttered. "However, I have wondered idly at the friendship the two of you have, and I merely would like Sherlock to do the same," he looked at Molly. "Wonder, that is."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think that he has given it proper thought or attention."

Molly shifted. "And what do you think he'll discover?"

"I honestly don't know, Molly."

"Do you think that he fancies me…? It certainly was implied in the lab the other day."

He cleared his throat. "Again, I cannot say with any certainty…but I _do_ think that he cares for you more than he admits to, and that is what I am attempting to open his mind to. Whether it is romantic in nature, I cannot say."

Molly's eyes fell.

She laughed. "And what about you, Mycroft?"

"Me?"

"Yeah. You're so concerned about Sherlock…what about your own heart?"

"It is of little consequence," and he sipped his latte.

"Only because you make it so."

He smirked at her. "There are many cobwebs gathered on that particular vessel, Molly. I never pay it much mind."

"Perhaps you should start."

His eyes narrowed. "And how, do you propose, I start doing that?"

Molly's eyes widened. She sniggered. "I hope you are joking."

"I am not."

"Mycroft…come on. Find a lady you might fancy and…you know…"

He laughed at her. "And who might you suggest in terms of this unfortunate lady?"

"Well…isn't your PA an attractive young lady?"

His mouth fell a touch. "Bit too young, I imagine. What's more, I shouldn't like to mix work and play."

"No…" Molly agreed. "I suppose that would be a bit messy," she paused. "Do you go to any pubs?" her eyes lit up.

Mycroft chuckled, and then he laughed. "Ah…no."

Her face fell. "It was a reasonable enough question," she mumbled.

"Molly, much as I appreciate your concern…there is no need to pursue this. I am fine…it is Sherlock we are talking about here."

And she felt the blush ascend her face. She nodded, "I think that you are mistaken, Mycroft. He doesn't fancy me…"

"We'll see," and he stood. "Have a lovely evening, Molly."

And he left.

And Molly, noting the time, rose as well, and left the cafe to return to Bart's.

* * *

Mycroft headed back to the office, despite the hour…he had to make certain that the interrogation of the spy had been successful.

He sauntered in, swinging his umbrella in a moony manner, and then sat it in its station next to his desk.

His email inbox was full to the brim, and so he spent the next three hours answering them, simultaneously talking to the inept interrogators on the phone.

How very, very tiresome.

His mind engaged in such rigor, he hadn't given Molly and her advice any thought.

Until he left for the day and went back to his flat.

Mycroft poured himself some brandy (a habit so recently shed, now making its appearance with more regularity), and sat in front of the telly.

He wasn't paying any attention at to it at all.

He swirled the liquid around in its glass…

And at last he rose and turned off the blasted thing.

Mycroft went to the closet…he rummaged through it a bit, and finally discovered the object of his search.

The case was old.

A bit battered from being shoved further and further in the wardrobe.

He opened it delicately…and there she was.

His violin.

How long had it been?

His fingers traced her sternum…(he always thought of it as a woman, and assigned human parts to the body)…and along her neck, the strings of hair…

He picked her up and tuned her with dexterity and precision.

And then, lifting her to his shoulder, began to glide the bow along the fine hairs of strings…

Melancholy sounds issued from the lovely instrument in quiet song.

He stood…rocking back and forth…his expression more subdued than Sherlock's dance.

His eyes closed…and he thought of the cafe and Molly…

Perhaps she was right.

Perhaps he was lonesome….

(_I am not lonely, Sherlock…_

_How would you know…?_)

Indeed, how would he?

Nary a day passed by without his reassurance to himself that he needed no one.

And he had been fairly certain that his brother, until recently, had uttered the same prayer in his quiet.

But Sherlock _did _need people…

Perhaps Mycroft did as well.

This..this was not to be born.

And the tune halted, and he placed her back, slamming the lid shut.

He was old!

He was situated!

He was content in his solitude!

Alone protected him from the dubious enterprise of feeling.

Caring.

Sherlock….

* * *

He was munching on a biscuit Mrs. Hudson had left.

His phone rang, and he quickly picked it up.

Mycroft.

He sighed.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Hello, brother, always a pleasure hearing your voice."

"You didn't answer the question."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Mycroft continued. "I was just reflecting on the state of emotional caring and how it happened that you fell victim to her charm."

"I did no such thing."

"John Watson mean anything to you?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Very well…what do you want to know?"

"Was it a mutual thing…did you actively seek out his friendship?"

"I'm not in love with the man, for god's sake," he replied irritably.

"I never said that you were."

"You know the story, Mycroft."

He "Hmmmed," his response.

"I suppose…" Sherlock continued. "I suppose, if I reflect on it, that despite your assurance that caring is not an advantage, that it does allow for growth. It allows for vulnerability, yes, but it gives in return."

"What does it give?"

"Tranquility."

"Is that so? And just how tranquil did you feel when you shot Magnussen for your friend whom you care for?"

This stopped him as he peered out into the night descending on Baker Street. "The tranquility that I reference was what I was seeking when I shot him…and it isn't merely John…it's Mrs. Hudson…Molly…Lestrade, and even you, brother. I sought to protect said tranquility, and Magnussen threatened that."

"How charming."

"If you dislike my answers, then cease asking me questions. And what, may I ask, do these questions tend?"

Mycroft sighed and sat. "I am attempting to ascertain whether it is worth the effort to seek friendship as you have enjoyed…"

"It isn't. Not for you."

"And why is that?"

Sherlock laughed and turned from the window. "Because you lack the ability to give."

"Give what?"

"Everything," and he hung up the phone.

Mycroft dropped the phone and sighed.

Sherlock had a point…he likely couldn't give as Sherlock described. He was too closed off. Too within himself.

But he resented the insinuation that he couldn't change to suit a hypothetical friend.

A challenge…

And what's more, was that he had enjoyed Molly's company…he felt like they were beginning a friendship of sorts.

Perhaps he should cultivate that.

Seek out her company more.

And he could push her gently while shoving Sherlock, more into one another's arms.

And though he dismissed it as soon as the thought creeped into his mind, he blanched a bit at the thought of an embrace between his brother and the pathologist.

He would not ask why.

Not even entertain the why to that particular creep of thought.

He went to bed, determined to see things differently in the morning. Determined to feel (and he winced), determined to be pleasant and accommodating…

He would start with Anthea.

Proceed to Sherlock.

And perhaps pay Molly another visit.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I am so sorry I've taken so long to update this...this is not how I normally operate. I will be __forthright, however, and tell you that from this point on, you should expect 1-2 updates weekly. I write for another small ship, and I spend a lot time over there. Anyway, I don't imagine that this story will be ALL THAT long...but I hate keeping readers hanging, and I shall not neglect this again. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

"Sir…I honestly don't know what to say," Anthea was holding the bottle of wine her boss had given her, and was attempting to understand the words she had just heard fall from his lips.

"Say yes, I'd be happy to take the rest of the afternoon off, Mr. Holmes," replied he.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," and she smiled.

"You're quite welcome," and he turned and went back into his office.

Mycroft sat at his desk and poured over his work. He would be taking some of it home with him, no doubt, but that hardly mattered. He had given his PA the evening off and he was pleased with her reaction.

Let her enjoy her date with her significant other.

And when eight pm finally stole its emergence from the 19th hour, he rose and gathered his things.

He went to Baker Street with a parcel and smiled.

* * *

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson," he said, brushing passed her with a jovial look on his continence.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Mycroft," he corrected.

She snapped her eyes to him.

"Oh," she paused. "Really?"

"Mrs. Hudson, how long have we known one another?"

"Quite some time now…"

"Just so. Let us dispel such formalities. It does get tiresome, wouldn't you agree?" and he began to ascend the stairs.

"Mycroft," she began. "That's an odd thing," she muttered to herself, and went back into her flat.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock was typing away at his laptop.

"Hello to you, brother. How are we this evening?"

"Fine," and he stole a glance at him. "Why did you bring me pastries? Or were you simply tired of me not having any to satisfy your hunger?"

"Well, I brought you your favorite cake…one of the only things we agree on," and he sat down opposite him.

"Why are you being nice? Is this because of our annoying conversation last evening?"

"Perhaps. But perhaps not," and he twirled his umbrella on the floor.

Sherlock considered him a moment, and decided not to press it. "Brandy, Mycroft?"

"Thank you."

Sherlock procured the warm alcohol, warm in the sense that it leaves one's belly sweet and warm.

"You know, Mycroft, I believe that you are undergoing some sort of crisis," and he handed him the glass.

"Is that your astute mind drawing such conclusions?"

"What else could it be, Mycroft?"

"Your growing sense of sentiment."

Sherlock laughed heartily at this. "What do you mean? _My_ sentiment?"

"Yes, I'd say that that is fair."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. What was he playing at? "Fair in what way?"

"Well, I think that you've undergone sufficient awakenings to realize that one, you need people. Two, people need you, and three, these ideas needn't be at opposite ends of the proverbial spectrum."

"I…"

Mycroft stood. "Sherlock, I think that you are keen enough to realize exactly what I'm saying. Don't be daft, and think about it," he paused a moment. "But don't think too longly on it, she may not wait forever."

And he left.

What the bloody hell was that about?

Sherlock watched Mycroft leave Baker Street. He watched his step, more springy. He watched his gait, more casual.

And then, with a shock reserved only for the most pressing of cases, he realized that Mycroft had walked.

_Walked._

As in, sans expensive and ostentatious vehicle.

This…this was concerning.

* * *

She was reading in her corner. It was a nice enough corner of the cafe, it afforded a nice look into the expanse of the place. But Molly was reading, she wasn't looking for anyone, necessarily.

No. She wasn't.

But then, just as her mind once more pressed its insistence that she wasn't, in he walked.

Mycroft.

And her face lit softly, and she swallowed.

"Hello, Molly. Mind if I sit?"

"No…no. Please."

And he did. "I saw Sherlock last evening."

"That right? How is he?" she was nervous, because she had been thinking about how it was possible that the detective fancied her.

"Much the same as he always is. Irritating and exhausting," and he sipped. "Tell me, Molly. Have you always lived in London?"

"Ah, mostly. I grew up in Rickmansworth…moved to London when I was in secondary school."

He nodded. "And do you like it?"

"Um, well…it's nice enough, I guess."

"I mean to say…do you prefer it to a more suburban setting?"

Molly smirked. "Ah, no…I guess not. It's alright, but the noise can be a bit much."

Mycroft nodded. "Have you siblings?"

"Two brothers."

"Older…?"

"I'm the middle child," she answered. "Why all the questions, Mycroft?"

"Merely attempting to better understand my close acquaintance."

She looked crookedly at him. "What about you? Do you like London?"

"It has its charms."

"And will you stay here? Or would you prefer a more rural setting?"

"I stay where the work is, Molly," and he sipped his coffee.

"Must be sad, always working…having your life so dictated by so many demands."

He looked steadily at her. "I am not sad. I have very important responsibilities, and I am quite content in my station."

"You sure seem like it," she replied with a bit more than a hint of sarcasm.

His eyebrows raised in shock. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Well, were you or were you not, before your holiday in Paris, exhausted and irritated by your work? Did you not seek out the advice of someone you hardly knew to guide you?" and Molly downed her latte for effect.

He cleared his throat and shifted.

He chuckled.

Then he laughed.

And Molly thought it was one of the very best things she had ever seen. "What?" and she returned his laugh.

"Well…" and he cleared his throat. "I'm not usually outdone, Molly. You caught me unawares."

She shrugged. "I would guess that that is a desirable thing. It would be kinda boring, don't you think, to always be right? To never be surprised?"

His gaze fell. "I suppose so."

"I mean…" she hastened to assuage his reaction. "I mean, it must be _something_ to understand things and people so well. But maybe…maybe sometimes to actually not know…not understand why something is happening…I think that that might be a good thing."

He nodded. "You are quite right, Molly. Mysteries in life certainly carry with them a particular allure I don't usually enjoy."

"No."

"No…But then, I wouldn't think that being surprised often would be all that desirable, either."

Molly looked at him steadily in the eyes. Her brown orbs holding in them a soft something, concurrently ubiquitous and yet utterly singular. "No, but what if you were wrong?" and she got up. "I need to go, Mycroft…I'll see you later."

And she left.

Wrong?

What did she mean by that?

He wasn't wrong.

Wrong about what?

Silly pathologists were often so exhausting in their cryptic observations.

But then, he reminded himself, he didn't know any other pathologists.

* * *

Wrong.

As he played his violin.

Wrong, and he sipped his brandy.

Wrong, and he found his mobile and Molly's number. (of course he had it, she was connected to Sherlock)

_Molly, it's Mycroft. I hope I am not engaging in anything terribly untoward…but just what did you mean by me being wrong earlier today?_

Send.

He loathed texting, but the idea of actually speaking to her on the phone was dreadful…he already felt out of his element. No need to delve deeper…further astray.

_Sorry? I can't remember what I said exactly._

She didn't remember.

_Ah…well…I believe you were suggesting that being surprised was generally a good thing._

Send.

_Oh! Oh yes. Surprises. With regard to people…_

Clever girl…but not really, as he had, he reminded himself, needed to refresh her poor recollection.

_That's right._

Send.

_Well, sometimes, I think, it is nice to be surprised. You know, makes certain people stand out from others…?_

True.

_Thank you, Molly…but you know, I am hardly ever wrong._

Send.

And he put the mobile away.

* * *

Molly smiled at the last text.

He was a funny fellow.

She poured her tea and sat on the sofa, petting Toby.

Molly reached for her book and paged to her bookmark.

Her mind began to wander…

Just what would it be like to be Sherlock's girlfriend?

Annoying, she thought.

But lovely…

He would never be around for meals.

But he had that smile, those hands…

He would always interrupt her, or else wouldn't pay attention.

But his mind was something, daunting, even…

He would never come to bed. He would be gone so much.

And Molly considered this.

And she considered being the object of his eye…

And she thought that yes, it would have a certain pull, how couldn't it? She had pined away for the git for years.

But maybe, she had learned to want a bit more.

Maybe she had discovered that she, in fact, deserved a bit more.

What would she do if she were faced with the reality of Sherlock Holmes declaring himself to her…?

Molly smiled a touch.

She'd likely snog him, only because she had fantasized about it endlessly (a certain one she played over repeatedly, with him grabbing the sides of her face after running his hands through his hair and then placing a very proper and full kiss to her mouth. Sometimes breaking through a window was part of it, but then Molly thought that that might be a bit much, and she didn't want to clean up that mess).

Yes, she'd kiss him.

Then what?

And Molly Hooper did think unto herself that night, that Sherlock Holmes would need to do a bit more than _just_ tell her he fancied her.

There would need to be a bit more to it than that. She wouldn't be melting at his feet, or succumbing to a touch…she would maintain a certain strength where he was concerned henceforth.

She thought that this was very good.

And her final thoughts before her eyes closed for sweet somnolence, was Mycroft's silly text.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was working on a case.

This was, in and of itself, not noteworthy…what was of interest was the fact that he was anxious to get to the morgue to inspect the body involved in said case.

Woman, 52, apparent suicide, but someone had insisted that she had been murdered, and NSY decided to investigate.

So DI Lestrade called on one Sherlock Holmes to aid in the investigation.

And Molly Hooper was performing the autopsy.

"Are you coming John?" he yelled, swinging his Belstaff around his shoulders, pulling his arms through.

"Hang on, Jesus. What is the rush? It's not like the bloody woman's going anywhere."

"I work with speed and precision, John, and require you to keep up," he replied, hurrying down the steps to procure a taxi.

In he flounced, grin emerging, eyes gleaming, and went to Molly.

"Hello, Molly," he said with too much teeth.

"Hi Sherlock," replied she, with her eyebrows creasing at his mirth.

"So, you've got Ms. Sanders, then?"

"I have," and she went over to direct the detective to the body.

John Watson watched his best friend watch Molly, and folded his arms across his chest.

Sherlock took out his magnifying glass and began to examine. "So, Molly, how have things been?" he asked with as much flippancy as he could muster.

"Good, thanks."

John came closer.

"Been to your cafe?" he inquired, standing up.

"Yeah, I go there frequently," she replied, now pursing her lips.

"Alone?"

"Why?"

"Curiosity," and he put away the glass, and turned to John. "Suicide," he stated flatly. "Well, Molly, I hope you have a lovely evening," and he left.

Molly looked at John. "What is going on with him?"

"No idea," but he thought he had an inkling, and wished Molly a good evening.

* * *

"What's going on, Sherlock?" he asked, sitting in his chair on Baker Street.

"I don't know what you mean," and he took out his violin.

Scotland Yard was such an annoying place that he often found that he needed to play after an interlude there.

"Yes, you do. Molly?"

"Not Molly, John. Mycroft."

And a tune emerged.

"Mycroft?"

"Just so…don't interrupt," and he played on.

And John rolled his eyes.

...half an hour later, and John was reading the Times.

"He's different John…he's almost cheerful. He is calling at odd times with odd questions and behaving in altogether odd ways," and now he began to pace, gesticulating. "…and he's concerned about my welfare, and he's drinking lattes at cafes!"

"Sorry. What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

"Mycroft, John. My brother? I'm better off talking to the skull," and he shook his head.

"Piss off, Sherlock," he replied. "What's wrong with Mycroft, now?"

"He's having a crisis, and Molly is in the crossfire."

"What?"

"Crisis, John! A crisis…and Molly is involved," and he sat.

"Well, what sort of crisis? Wasn't he just on holiday?"

"Exactly. A holiday! And he's telling Mrs. Hudson to call him Mycroft, and he's going to cafes and drinking lattes…surely you see the emergent nature now…lattes, for god's sake! And he is meeting Molly there…_Molly,_ John! Even you can recognize the signs of crisis here."

"I honestly don't see anything wrong with anything you just said."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, you wouldn't. But I know my brother, and this is severe. This is concerning, and poor Molly…she has no idea," and he stood up. "I should warn her."

"Now just calm down, mate. Molly is a grown woman, and Mycroft…well. I can't say that he's harmless, but he wouldn't _hurt_ Molly."

"He has no idea what he's doing, and he'll hurt her before he even realizes what he's done," and he put his coat on, flipping up the collar.

"Why do you care, Sherlock?" he stood from his seat.

"I don't _care_, John. I'm a creature of habit, and I dislike change," and without preamble, he left.

* * *

Someone was talking.

Someone he should be listening to.

Someone of some importance.

He willed his attention back to them.

The Prime Minister was holding a meeting, and Mycroft was there, among a few choice others, and he was not as rapt as he should be.

He refocused his gaze and looked at the PM.

The meeting was over, and Mycroft had hardly heard a word.

He returned to his office, wondering what on earth was going on with his mind. Since when was Mycroft Holmes unable to focus?

Never. Never had he been rendered thus.

Irritated, he shut down his computer and took his umbrella.

And he left for the day.

And he went to the cafe.

And was slightly disappointed that a certain close acquaintance wasn't there, nor was she to be found in the 45 minutes of his sojourn.

But he admitted nothing…and left the cafe to stroll about London.

London, whose streets he knew intimately yet never really walked.

London, the city of his work, the city he felt beholden to somehow protect, yet he never actually spent time with…

And so, he did.

* * *

"Molly. We need to talk right now," said Sherlock, entering the lab when he discovered that she wasn't in the morgue.

"What? Why?" she asked, somewhat confused.

"How much time have you been spending with Mycroft?"

"Not that much."

"I need specifics," and he approached her.

She folded her arms. "Why?"

"Because, I'm afraid he's not well."

"Not well?" she repeated.

"No. He's undergoing a crisis, and I think that it would be in your best interest if you stayed clear of him until he recovers."

Molly looked at him for a moment, mouth slightly agape, and then laughed.

"What." the detective demanded.

"Crisis?! What _are_ you talking about?"

"Crisis. A time of great difficulty or danger. 'Danger' being the operative word here."

Molly smirked. "You think that Mycroft is dangerous, do you?"

"I _know _he is. Molly, I'm expressing this concern for your own benefit."

"You are generous," she replied with sarcasm, and turned away, her arms falling to her sides once more.

"I am, thank you. Now will you heed my warning?"

She looked at him incredulously. "No," was her abbreviated response.

"No."

"No."

"Molly, what don't you understand about this? He is dangerous. He is omnipresent. He is ridiculous. He is not to be trifled with."

She shrugged her indifference. "I don't care, Sherlock. It's just coffee…"

"No. No it isn't. Nothing is ever 'just' something where Mycroft is concerned…"

"Maybe you don't know him as well as you think."

"That is simply not possible, Molly."

"God, you are an ass," said she, shaking her head. "Are you through?"

"No…I…"

"Well, allow me to rephrase: I'm done listening, Sherlock, and I am going now."

She left him there, gaping, confused, a bit angry, bit put off, but mostly with a strong desire to find his brother and tell him to stay clear of his pathologist.

* * *

_I was wondering if you'd be interested in meeting me for coffee tomorrow. Say at 10 am?"_

Send.

What was he doing?

Asking Molly for coffee…

He was a bit lonesome, if he was being honest, and he found her company to be a pleasing distraction.

_Can't…I don't get off work until 2, and my break is at 9._

Ah. Well, probably for the best.

_Thank you, Molly…another time, then._

Send.

She was responding…

_I can on Wednesday, Mycroft, at 10 if you like._

He swallowed.

_Sounds lovely. See you then._

Blast.

Why did that make him happy?

Because, he thought, they were becoming friends…

Friends.

How utterly hilarious.

And he smiled a touch.

"Sir? Your brother is on the line," rang out Anthea's voice.

He sighed, and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Mycroft. What are you doing with Molly?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what are you doing with her? Are you using her in some grand espionage case? Is she involved with a terrorist?"

"Sherlock, have you been watching crap telly again? You aren't making sense."

"You, Mycroft are the one not making sense."

He played with his pen. "What are you talking about brother?"

"Stay away from Molly…she is too innocent and too sweet to tell you herself, and I think that it would be best for everyone involved if you stayed clear of her."

"You mean you."

"Sorry?"

"Best for you, Sherlock. She isn't panting after you like a puppy, and it bothers you," and he smiled.

"You see? Your crisis is adversely effecting your mind."

"I am not staying away from Molly, brother. I happen to enjoy her company, and I am going to continue on in this manner until I don't."

He hung up the receiver.

How ridiculous Sherlock was!

Stupid man.

Mycroft was irritated, and he shifted in his seat at his desk.

And his thoughts drifted once more…

And he thought that Sherlock was jealous…jealous, that he and Molly were enjoying a rather nice acquaintance.

Jealous! He inwardly laughed.

How preposterous.

Why would Sherlock be jealous? For what reason other than he was seeing something that simply was not there.

And his thoughts paused for a moment.

…Sherlock normally didn't make things up…occasionally he missed something, true, but he seldom inserted something unnecessary…

Which meant, by logic, that something existed…

What this something actually was, Mycroft couldn't say.

Yes, he enjoyed Molly's company.

Yes, he was slightly disappointed when she wasn't there at the cafe.

But, this was, he told himself, an effort to cultivate an acquaintance into more of a friend, since he was rather devoid of such a thing in his life.

Nothing more.

Only a friend.

He nodded his acquiescence.

Yes…Sherlock was seeing something, Mycroft believed…reading into something here, as has been his MO since the outset of this whole thing.

Funny, that. Sherlock reading something romantic in nature…Sherlock, of all people.

It was then that Mycroft realized that Sherlock hadn't mentioned romance.

No.

It was _his_ mind and thoughts doing that.

And as though struck, he shot up from his chair.

_He _had no interest in Molly in that capacity!

Sherlock was the one who desired that sort of thing from her…not _him._

He ran his fingers over his forehead and withered an unsteady breath.

Myrcoft went to the window and taking out his mobile, turned it on.

_As a matter of fact, Molly, I won't be able to enjoy coffee with you on Wednesday…I am sorry._

Send.

He looked out onto the still London street, lamps glowing, shedding their light in crisp sheen onto the pavement below in a paint of warm gloom.

* * *

And Molly received the text with a snort.

Effing Sherlock.

Meddling with poor Mycroft.

She would need to set this right, and resolved to do just that in the morning.


	10. Chapter 10

It was with much consternation that he stirred his tea.

Tea…

He hadn't enjoyed it in what seemed like weeks…

Damnable lattes.

So much for a brief sojourn to the delights of bitter caffeinated goodness.

Tea…tea was where his heart was, and tea should be embraced as such.

He sipped it.

Not quite as pleasing to his tongue as he recalled.

And Mycroft's mind did wander…

Had he lost himself somewhere…? Had he deviated so much in the company of Molly Hooper? Was she the cause of this transformation?

And what was to be done?

He massaged his temples…he should avoid her.

…and his heart did protest a touch…for he thought that no one in many years had made him feel so alive.

Alive.

Preposterous.

He hardly knew her…

He hardly knew her, and he stood.

He hardly knew her…and he went to his window….

There was much he didn't know about her, to be sure…

But he knew that she was sweet.

He knew she was a diligent worker.

He knew that she was loyal.

She was wise, in a very singular way.

He knew her to be steadfast in her resolve.

But, he thought, most of these things could be gleaned from a short acquaintance with her, it didn't mean anything beyond that.

It couldn't.

He mustn't lose sight of his purpose - Sherlock cared for Molly, and that must be the endgame.

* * *

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice rang out in the flat.

"Oh, hello, Molly…what brings you here?"

He was wearing goggles, and frying something up with a blow torch.

"Is that…an ear?" she looked confusedly at him.

"Yes. The eyes I took care of already," and he set his instruments down.

"My god, Sherlock. It stinks in here! Can't you vent it?" and she went to the window to open it.

He shrugged and took off the goggles. "So, what brings you here?"

"You need to leave Mycroft alone," she stated, looking at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're not forgiven. You've been despicable. Leave him alone."

"He's my brother, Molly. And I'd like to point out that he bothers _me_ far more than I bother _him_," and he went into the sitting room and sat at his computer.

"That's because he cares about you!"

"Oh, Molly, that is funny…he has soiled your vision with his ridiculous opinions and erroneous observations," he shook his head, not looking at her.

She sighed deeply, and began to think that she rather hoped he didn't fancy her…one good song and that would see to that. "Sherlock, look at me."

He did as he was bidden.

"I think it's best if you stay out of this. Mycroft and I enjoy a steady…friendship…and that suits me fine," she began to leave.

"You don't understand. He's not the lamb you think him to be."

"And perhaps you aren't the knight I thought that you were…" and she left.

He was left feeling quite put out.

What did she mean by _that._

He stood at the window and watched her go.

Knight?

Ah…now he recalled some fairy tale reference…what was it…knight in some armor?

He looked it up on Google…"A knight in shining armor:

Someone who helps you when you are in a difficult situation

Usage notes: usually said by a woman about a man

Etymology: in medieval times _(500 to 1500 C.E.)_, knights were soldiers on horses who were also supposed to help and protect women."

Molly had thought that he was a knight in shining armor? Her savior?

Preposterous…

But then, he thought about how much she had done for him…

More like _she_ was _his_ knight in shining armor.

How she helped him fake his death, and kept the secret for two years…

How she would conceal him in her flat…

She had always, always been there for him.

And Sherlock began to feel something wholly unfamiliar to him: regret.

Not that there had never been a time when he hadn't regretted something, no. Drug addiction came to mind…

But to regret the way in which he treated someone, no…no, that wasn't something he felt terribly often.

Sherlock then thought that perhaps he had been an ass.

He should make it up to her…

* * *

Molly had been to the cafe in vain for a week now.

Not that she didn't enjoy her lattes…on the contrary, she enjoyed them very much.

But no Mycroft, and she had sent him two texts, without receiving a reply.

She was saddened by this, and blamed Sherlock mostly, but thought that perhaps Mycroft was partly to blame. He was, after all, a bit odd.

...

Molly was in the lab.

She was running a toxicology test when she heard Sherlock enter.

She had his entrance on memory.

"Molly," he stated simply.

"Hi, Sherlock," and then she looked at him. "What's wrong?"

"Why would you think that something was wrong?" and he stepped nearer her.

She looked at him and took a step back. "Because you're…" she paused and narrowed her eyes. "Smiling."

"Is it odd that I am smiling?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.

He laughed, but ceased his forward movement. "I'm just checking in on a friend."

"A friend."

"That's right.

"Ah…" she paused. "I'm fine, thanks…and you?"

"Wonderfully well."

Molly nodded. "Was there something that you needed?"

He shook his head.

"Sherlock?" and she was suddenly struck…now was the moment to decipher Mycroft's suggestion. "Do you fancy me?" and she almost fell over from the humiliation of finally asking.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," and she giggled and blushed.

But in that moment, Sherlock thought about Molly in a way he hadn't heretofore…and he saw her for the lovely creature that she was…and he wondered…if he kissed her, would she steal away?

In that moment of blind action and utter madness, Sherlock Holmes seized upon the idea of kissing Molly Hooper…

His breath came quick.

He went to her.

He took her shoulders.

And he leaned into her, looking at her mouth, and missing her eyes growing to the size of saucers…

It was timid at first…but Molly deepened it, and she found his tongue and put her arms around his neck.

And Sherlock returned it…

After a moment of such occupation, Molly broke it.

He was a touch unwilling.

"So…" she said. "I guess you do."

"Do what?" he was looked at her mouth still.

"Fancy me…?"

"I…" he stepped away. "I need to leave…I'm sorry…" and he ran his hand through his hair.

"Ok…" and she watched him go.

And Molly Hooper did think that that was the most anti-climatic snog she had ever experienced.

* * *

Sherlock went back to 221B in a state.

He had kissed Molly.

_Kissed her._

What on earth was happening?

He sat and steepled his fingers, and thought…

Molly was sweet.

Bright.

She was loyal and kind.

Brave.

Adept at cutting up cadavers.

His mind traversed the palace, entering rooms he had left locked…

And he discovered that yes. He fancied Molly.

He wanted to do things with her…

Why hadn't he seen this before?

Too immersed, he supposed.

Sherlock rose from his chair and retrieved his mobile.

_Call me this instant._

And a minute later, his phone rang out.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"Sherlock. You summoned me?"

"I did…" and he took his sword and began to engage in some play.

"Is it a secret?"

"Hardly. Mycroft…tell me. Are you still drinking lattes?"

"I'm sorry?"

"No. Are you or are you not drinking lattes?"

"I'm…not…"

And he closed his eyes, and put the sword down. "I see."

"_That_ was your urgent matter?"

"Yes. Thank you, Mycroft," and he hung up the phone.

Damn.

His head fell back and he looked at the ceiling.

His brother…well…it wasn't like Mycroft had never done anything for him. And time was running out on the poor sod.

"Mrs. Hudson! When was the last time this overhead light was dusted?!"

* * *

Molly went home in quite a state.

How was this possible?

Sherlock Holmes fancied her, and she didn't feel a goddamn thing.

In fact, if anything, she was irritated.

He was a maddening fellow.

She opened the door to her flat and threw her keys onto the table next to the door.

She sighed, and Toby greeted her.

"It's been a day, Toby…I can't even begin to tell you…"

She heated up some soup and put a movie on.

"Bridesmaids," hilarious.

She could use some hilarity right about now.

And Molly ate her soup and watched the movie…and she laughed when appropriate.

_What the bloody hell was going on with her. Sherlock kissed her, and basically confessed having feelings for her, and she was annoyed…._

Why. Why didn't she melt the way she had thought she would? The way she had in her reverie?

Molly curled up on the sofa, head in palm, and stared at the screen.

She didn't want to be Annie…milling about life, trying to figure things out…falling for the wrong guys…

And that Jon Hamm was such a dick.

And that sweet Irish police officer was so nice…

Annie needed to get her priorities straight, as she watched the officer watch her get in that car with Jon Hamm.

And he wanted her to blow him in the car!

Sherlock wouldn't do that, but then…he could be kind of a dick.

Unbidden, Molly's thoughts went to Mycroft.

He wasn't a dick.

He was rather sweet.

In a really creepy way…

She dismissed it and turned off the movie.

Molly went to brush her teeth, maybe think about the kiss…maybe start a spark there…

But as she climbed into bed, she realized that it just wasn't there.

He wasn't the knight she and always dreamed he was…whether he liked her romantically or not.

She fell asleep with these thoughts teeming her mind.

She didn't sleep well.

* * *

The morning glow in the flat was grayish in color. It issued its presence softly, but with slight menace.

It was a knowledgable dawn…it carried with it a secret song, a new beginning…a want, a need, a realization of communion…

Mycroft had rose just before the sun, and was sitting at his table, tapping his mobile.

He felt wretched, though he couldn't account for it.

Wretched, and he swallowed.

He turned on the thing.

_Anthea…I won' t be in today…I'll be at the computer here at the flat if something is urgent._

Send.

What was he doing?

He was calling to the office, telling them he'd be working from home.

So completely bizarre, but relieving to not have to go in.

He relished the thought he would be alone for the day. Set his thoughts right.

Yes…alone.

Alone was very good.

And he repeated this mantra until he believed it.


	11. Chapter 11

The bell startled him out of a sort of trance, staring at the screen, demanding that something resembling anything would materialize.

No luck.

And the bell sounded once more.

Mycroft rose from his desk and went to answer it.

"Hi Mycroft. Mind if I come in?"

"Molly," he was surprised. "Not at all," and he allowed her entry.

It was a bit dark, just as she had imagined it would be.

Not that she ever gave it all that much thought.

No.

"Care for some tea?" he asked.

"Lovely," and Molly sat.

He assembled the stuff and returned, handing her a cup. "How did you discover where my flat was? Sherlock?"

"No. I stopped by your office and your PA informed me that you were here, and offered me the address," she paused. "And I thought that if you knew I was headed over, you would've insisted that I not."

He nodded and smiled. "Well, you're not far off. What do I owe the pleasure?"

Molly sipped, swallowed, and looked steadily at him. "Sherlock kissed me yesterday."

And his eyes grew wide. "Is that so?"

"It is."

"And…?"

"And I was annoyed."

Well, _that _he didn't expect. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah…" and she set her cup down. "I was annoyed. I always thought that I'd be thrilled, you know. I've…been attracted to him for a long time."

Mycroft nodded. "I know it."

And she smiled. "Can you think why I wouldn't be thrilled at his showing me such affection?"

He shifted. "I can't…perhaps he simply took you unawares."

"No…I don't think so," and Molly's mind fixed on Mycroft. She was attempting to entrap him, something that Molly would never have done, but she was tired of having life happen to her. "I think that perhaps, something else is going on."

He swallowed. "I cannot account for it."

"No? You haven't been putting ideas in his head?"

"Excuse me?"

"I think that Sherlock was being swayed. I think that he acted on impulse, and it was evident in his kiss…and I think that you are behind this."

"Molly, that is absurd."

"And you are a terrible liar. It's one thing, Mycroft, to think something is going on…but you have been playing Sherlock and I and it is most unfair," and she stood.

"I have not. I have merely been attempting to illustrate to my brother how reprehensible his behavior is toward you, and…" he stood.

And Molly's face flushed. "You made me think that he fancied me, when he didn't. He never said anything to you about this! And you gave me false hope, and now…now it is plain that I have absolutely no feelings for him…" she paused. "So at least one good thing has come of this fucked up mess."

And she quaked a bit, and some tears threatened.

"Molly…"

"Stop, Mycroft. Just stop it. I get it. And it was only my heart you were playing with."

She turned and left.

And there he was, standing as though struck.

He replayed the scene several times before he attempted work once more.

She was angry with him.

She didn't care for Sherlock in any romantic way.

Sherlock may or may not care for her in a romantic way.

She was angry with him.

Sherlock had kissed her.

She was angry with him.

Mycroft rubbed his face and sighed. He disliked Molly being cross with him, especially since he and only been trying to make her life easier.

Better.

But he had only succeeded in pissing her off, and making her miserable.

He should likely set this to right.

Immediately following some brandy and responding to emails.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes stood in front of his door, in apparent examination of it.

He was holding his umbrella.

He was going to leave to speak with Molly.

This needed to be sorted.

But what was he going to say?

And he left his flat.

It had stopped raining about half and hour previous, and the sidewalks were glistening still from the wash. There were bits of dirt on the floor, and his well-shined shoes crunched it with a sound rather unpleasant to his ears. But the air smelled fresh, the moisture was thick, and he breathed deeply to free his mind.

Why did it bother him so that Molly was cross?

Because she was a friend.

So much for goldfish.

Because she had been ill-used, and he was genuinely concerned about her well being.

But why?

Because she was sweet.

Because she was quick.

Because she seemed to care about him and enjoy his company.

His grip tightened a bit around his trusty umbrella.

She cared about him.

Cared…

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

He looked about.

Mycroft was walking.

_Walking._

He had called in sick today from work.

_Called in sick._

And slowly, a realization washed over him with the same tumult as the rain that had baptized London 45 minutes previous.

Molly…

Bugger.

He sighed and looked to the sky.

How could he have let this happen?

Mycroft then looked down once more to his feet.

He had but two options: go and tell her, or go home.

He opted for the latter.

How could he…? as he drank the brandy deeply once more.

How could he 1) tell her

2) live with her laughter at his absurdity

3) tell her

4) live with her absence

5) tell her

6) live with Sherlock's ridicule

7) tell her

And he poured himself more brandy.

Mycroft had been in love once…

_"__You really ought to go, you know," Anna said to him over their tea. "It's Oxford, Myc. Just go."_

_"__It's Mycroft, Anna. I've told you…"_

_She laughed._

_He continued. "It's not a matter of whether or not I go. Of course I'm going…it's a matter if you'll come with me."_

_Anna stirred her tea. "I can't. My parents need me…"_

And that was that.

She had been accepted to Oxford, but she wasn't going, and he was.

And life happened, and things…and she got married. And he was fine with that.

He was, honestly.

His work wouldn't allow for such frivolity as a wife or family.

…but he was getting older.

He wasn't needed for such dire assignments, or risky situations, or indeed, anything other than late nights in front of the computer.

Long days at the office.

Holiday work…

Who was he kidding.

Mycroft had absolutely no time for anything other than work and keeping Sherlock out of trouble.

He sighed and drank some more.

Perhaps this was unfair to him. Perhaps he deserved ore than what his work offered.

_Now_ he was thinking about work in terms of fairness.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Nothing fair about work.

Or love…

_Love…_the word sat in his head and looked at him with a sinister grin whose aged face made a mockery of his feelings…

Yes.

If he was being truly honest, he was falling in love with her.

He must have been ripe for it, it didn't take much time.

He had been wanting this, whether he was aware of it or not.

And Molly was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He sighed and opened his eyes.

His flat was decidedly empty.

It was most certainly past 2am.

And he texted Anthea.

_Won't be in today. I'll be in Monday…will be available for emails and phone calls._

Send.

He was calling off once more.

He was in trouble.

* * *

"No, mum. I don't want to come home for the weekend…I've got things going on," Molly was in her kitchen speaking to her mother.

She hated these chats.

They always ended with her feeling guilty.

"No…I'm fine…just been a bit of a week," she paused. "Yes…I'll visit soon, I promise. Love you too…" and she hung up.

She loved her mum, but she could be intense, and Molly was just about done with intensity.

She hadn't seen Sherlock since the kiss three days ago…

It was Saturday, and she was cleaning her flat.

But for some reason, she kept thinking about Mycroft.

Perhaps she had overreacted.

Perhaps he was just being nice…

Perhaps he was that much of an idiot when it came to friendship ad relating to others.

Perhaps, she thought, she should visit him.

Molly wondered if he was at the office…it was Saturday, but she rather thought that that hardly mattered.

She scrubbed her kitchen and mopped the floor. It was cathartic, cleaning so, and she tackled it with vigor.

Molly finished up, and opened her refrigerator.

She had gone shopping earlier, so she was stocked.

She pulled out some bread for toast and brewed some coffee.

She sat at her table…

It was three pm.

And she had a thought.

A wonderful thought…

She would get some take out and head over to Mycroft's…

A peace offering.

Yes. That would make her feel better about things.

Molly drank her coffee and finished her toast.

She showered and dressed…

She looked at herself, and smiled.

Molly wasn't a bad looking woman.

She brushed her hair after putting on a pretty green top and jeans…and boots.

Molly did like her black boots.

She headed out the door and thought about what the hell she was going to het in terms of food…she had no idea what he liked to eat, she only ever saw him drink coffee or tea.

Well, she thought…Sherlock enjoyed Chinese…maybe Mycroft liked it, too…

So Molly obtained some of the regular fare from the take away Chinese place and headed over to Mycroft's.

She took note of the air…

The sun was beginning its descent…it was going on 6pm…and the soft glow of twilight whispered its presence in London's atmosphere….

Molly took this in.

She stopped to admire the scene before her:

Clouds feathering overhead in the paint of sky…blurring the hues behind them…here amaranthine…there deep carmine…here rose…there cerulean…

She sighed.

Sometimes, Molly Hooper, it was wonderful to be alive.

She rang the bell.

No answer.

Once more…

And she heard movement on the other side of the door.

She smiled and swallowed as the lock was tinkered with…

"Hi Myc…" she began brightly.

Then she looked at him.

He looked bloody awful.

And wholly shocked to see her…


	12. Chapter 12

"…croft…" she completed. "Tell me what's wrong."

He was staring at her.

How was she standing right there?

"Nothing is the matter, Molly. Just a bit, under the weather."

"Oh…should I come back another time, then?"

Say yes. "No, it's fine," and he allowed her entry.

Molly stepped into his flat and noticed that it was quite dark. "Want some tea?"

"No thank you," he replied, sitting down.

Molly sat down as well. "I brought take away…but I think that maybe we should skip it," she shifted. "Wanna watch something?" and she picked up the remote and turned on the telly.

He didn't answer her.

He was uncomfortable in the extreme.

And Molly found "Orphan Black" and settled in.

They sat there in silence for a bit, until she looked at him and smiled. "I'm not angry, you know. I was just…well…I _was_ angry. But I think that what happened was for the best."

He nodded, looking away.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Of course I am."

Molly switched it off. "I don't know you all that well, but I know people well enough to know when they aren't being truthful."

He sighed. He looked at Molly…

She was lovely.

To admit to any feeling with regard to her would be foolish, and Mycroft Holmes was not foolish.

He was very smart.

He was very strong.

And he wouldn't be wrapped up in some emotional mess simply because a lovely pathologist had shown him attention.

He swallowed. "I think that perhaps you should go."

"Go?"

"Yes."

"Why?" and her brow furrowed and her eyebrows creased.

"Because, Molly…it won't do to have you here…I am a very busy man, I have a demanding schedule. I have things to tend to."

"But…I thought that we were friends…and you know…you seem rather down."

"Apologies if I gave you that impression. I simply do not have time for friendship."

"Well," she said, standing. "Alright then. I am sorry for taking up so much of your valuable time," and she left in a huff.

Better, this was.

Much.

And Mycroft would forget about her…deny it altogether….

Until she was a mere memory.

* * *

Two months passed, and Molly didn't see nor hear from Mycroft.

Sherlock would be by on occasion, but the kiss they shared was never mentioned.

Molly thought that this was a good thing, for though she cared about him, she honestly didn't want to discuss it with the detective.

She was over it and she wold much rather ignore whatever inclination she might have in discussing the awkward kiss.

She was growing…and she relished it.

A part of her did miss the man with the umbrella, but she believed that he had dismissed her rather rudely, and honestly, she didn't need it.

So it was, when a text from Sherlock concerning Mrs. Hudson, gave her pause.

She had been admitted to Bart's, and could she please check in on her occasionally…?

Of course she would, because Molly liked the landlady, and she thought she took good care of Sherlock, despite his protests.

It was the end of the night shift.

Molly was tired, but she had promised Sherlock that she would make sure that Mrs. Hudson was well in hand.

Since it was nearly 11 at night, the lights had been dimmed in the ward, and Molly felt as though she should be careful and creep along a bit. The soft glow added an ambiance to an otherwise dreary situation.

"Hey, Anna," said Molly to the nurse on duty. "I'm checking on a patient for a friend…"

"Which one, Molly?"

"Mrs. Hudson…?" Molly suddenly realized that she had absolutely no idea what her first name was.

Anna smiled. "She has a visitor…I had told them that visiting hours were over, but this guy must have some sort of pull somewhere, because everyone just told me to ignore it and let him."

"They?"

"Men in black."

Molly snorted. "Like the movie…?" her voice trailed and she looked at the hospital room.

Mycroft.

"Molly?"

"Is he in there now, Anna?"

The nurse shrugged. "I think so…"

Molly nodded. "I'm just gonna pop in for a mo'…that ok?"

"She isn't that sick…they're just keeping her in for observation for the night…so yeah. I guess so."

"Thanks," said Molly, and she walked over to the room where Mrs. Hudson lay sleeping.

And there was Mycroft.

Molly entered, and he turned.

And the look on his face, though fleeting, was something.

"Molly," he said, standing.

"Hey Mycroft. Looking after Mrs. Hudson for Sherlock, huh?"

He nodded, and looked at his feet. "Though admittedly, I was attempting to ascertain the quality of care she was receiving. It wouldn't do to have her in here for any amount of time."

"Why?"

"Well, because someone needs to watch Sherlock when I'm unavailable."

Molly laughed, and then she cleared her throat. "I think she'll be fine…I saw her chart."

And Mycroft nodded. His gaze fell. "Molly…would you care to grab a bite? I haven't eaten today…"

She smiled.

How could she stay cross?

"Sure. Let's go."

* * *

_Two hours later…_

Molly was laughing.

Hard.

It had been some time since she had laughed that hard.

"Oh my god, not really?! The Prime Minister didn't really say _that_?!"

Mycroft was chucking. "Oh, yes…and then he said he was being put off his tea…"

Her head fell forward in her violent laughter. "People actually say that out loud?"

"Evidently," it was pleasant to make someone laugh.

And since that someone had beguiling brown eyes, it was so much the better.

Molly swallowed her water and looked at the time. "Oh my god…it's 1am! I need to get going…"

Mycroft nodded and stood as she did. "Thank you for accompanying me this evening."

"Sure…I guess Sherlock was really worried," and she slung her bag on her shoulder.

"He cares for Mrs. Hudson a very great deal."

"He cares for a lot of people, no matter what he says."

Mycroft swallowed as he followed her out. "Indeed…though it can be difficult to admit such an emotion."

"Why?" and she turned to him.

"Well…some may argue that to care is a weakness; a defect, even."

"A defect," she repeated. "Is that why you've avoided me for the past two months?"

He looked at her as they walked. "I have not been avoiding you."

"Come on, Mycroft. I'm not stupid. You started to care about me, and so you pushed me away. You all but just admitted it."

Damn she was good. "It wasn't as though I'd see you and begin to walk the other way."

"No…but you made certain that you wouldn't see me at all…is that not so?"

"It is not," he lied. He hated that she saw through him. He hated that he was enjoying himself utterly. That he was having fun with her. _Fun,_ for god's sake. "I have merely been very busy."

Molly shrugged as they approached her building. "It's fine. I understand. If you think that it is defective to care about someone, then I'll stay clear."

Panic. "No…don't be silly…" fix this. "Molly…would you be agreeable to meeting me for coffee at the cafe tomorrow?"

She smiled. "Alright," and she turned and walked up the stairs. "I'll see you in nine hours."

Why had he just done _that._

Because the past eight weeks had been empty.

Because if he was being truthful, he had missed her.

Because he was in love with her, and Sherlock was out of the picture, and try as he might, he couldn't let go of her. This evening was proof positive of his attachment.

And he couldn't stand one more evening sipping brandy by himself, playing his violin, answering emails.

So when Sherlock called and asked to make certain that Mrs. Hudson was receiving the best care, since he was on a case, Mycroft complied.

And now he was going to be having coffee with Molly.

And the lattes would start afresh…

* * *

Molly laid in her bed staring at the ceiling.

She was thinking about Mycroft.

What a sad life!

Caring…a defect?…a disadvantage…! What rubbish.

She turned on her side.

He was very elegant.

And like Sherlock, but quite different…

Intelligent.

Somewhat dangerous…but in a wholly dissimilar manner from his brother in that regard.

And she sighed and got up to get some water.

Luckily she was off tomorrow.

Molly sat at her kitchen table and stared at the wall…

She had missed him over these months…though she was unaware of the extent until she saw him.

She had begun to consider him a bit of a friend…

No…and she thought of his kindness…his grace…his wit…his mind…his sense of humor…his sorrow…

…no. He had become a bit more than a friend, if she was being honest.

She had looked forward to his company.

She had enjoyed their conversations immensely.

And the hole left by his absence, she discovered, was more than what she was willing to admit, until now.

_Molly Hooper…you are falling for him._

She rubbed her face with her hands and finished the water.

Damn.

How could she have done this? _Both _brothers?!

She got up and fetched her phone…she stared at it.

He would never reciprocate... caring was a defect…a disadvantage…_his _words he had uttered two hours previous.

She should cancel coffee.

Stop it before it became unstoppable.

And she worried her lip…

Did she want to stop it?

She couldn't save him, nor did she want to, especially.

Molly, you are a hopeless cause.

She crawled back into bed and sighed loudly; so loud that Toby moved and got off of the bed.

"Piss off, Toby," and she tossed herself onto her side and muttered something about impossible situations.

….

She hadn't slept well at all.

She got out of the shower and dressed, brushed her hair.

Perhaps she should be forthright.

Tell him…something.

She shook her head, swung her jacket on and grabbed her bag. She hated her bag. She should get a new one.

And Molly walked slowly toward the cafe, about a 10 minute walk from her building. She breathed deeply, concentrating hard on the pavement below her feet. Reliable pavement…always there.

The breeze kicked up a bit as she rounded the corner.

There was the cafe, and she almost turned and left…

But, she decided, what good would that do? She would be just as bad as him then, and that, she decided, would not do.

She straightened herself with her resolve (what she was resolving to do, she wasn't sure just yet), but she was no coward.

Even if she went in there and had a normal conversation with him like nothing had changed, it would be braver than turning around and going home.

Molly gathered up her mettle, and walked down the street until she was in front of the cafe.

She half expected him not to be there.

She opened the door, and there he was…

In the corner.

At their table…

He spotted her.

And smiled.


	13. Chapter 13

_Sorry...this is a bit shorter than is my custom; this is purposeful, since I decided to divide the last chapter into two...so yeah. The last chapter is __forthcoming...I need to finish this up before NaNo! Thanks to everyone who is reading and reviewing, following, favoriting! You guys are the best!_

* * *

Good god she was a lovely creature. She seemed to improve every time he beheld her.

He watched her procure her coffee and his eyes never left her as she sat down opposite him.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied, smiling a touch.

He nodded. "I really must apologize, Molly, for my behavior a couple of months ago. I haven't an adequate defense other than I was rash and wrong."

She nodded. "You were wrong, Mycroft. But it's ok. Sometimes, I think, it's better to be wrong and admit it, than to always be mostly right."

He played with his cup containing the latte. 'You are a wise woman."

"Not really," and she sipped, and looking up, she caught him staring at her. "Are _you_ alright? You seem..out of sorts."

He looked out of the window. "I have been meditating on the state of solitude, and whether it is, in the end, a desirable thing."

"It can be, I suppose."

He nodded. "Solitude has but one problem with it."

"What's that?"

"It must be done alone."

And Molly laughed. "Very astute observation, Mycroft."

He laughed a touch. "Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"It would be a pleasure for me to call you a friend."

And Molly Hooper did think that she felt some tears well at this, but she swallowed her emotion, and nodded instead.

And the friends sat there for an hour, talking, laughing, and enjoying one another's company.

And Molly observed to herself that she wasn't so sad in his presence. That he held some of her melancholy at bay.

Too bad he was so…so…?

Mycroft-y.

For even when he wasn't entertaining, he was soothing to her mood, to the bleakness which crawled and lurked under her skin.

She decided, by the time they finished their coffee, that he was perfectly suited to her.

He held sorrow, but not overwhelmingly so.

He was humorous, though not in an obnoxious way.

He was wildly intelligent.

Dark, but not menacing.

Sweet, but not sickeningly so.

Damn it, Molly. This was inconvenient.

"Well, I guess I'll be going, then," and he stood.

"Oh, alright," and Molly rose as well.

They left, and Molly went her way, Mycroft his.

And she thought only of him while she read the book which sat on her lap, the same sentence read and re-read at least a dozen times.

He was handsome, she thought…what with his brow and his smile and his impeccably tailored suit…his voice…

Subtly so…she hadn't noticed any particular trait to deem him handsome before.

Her heart was opening her eyes to this.

_Sherlock has told me that he wishes to have me over for a drink later._

She looked at the text.

Why was he telling her this?

_Oh? _

Send.

_Yes…and it is most inopportune. Might I use you as an excuse to not attend?_

Molly smiled.

_You mean, lie?_

Send. She giggled.

_Well, that is a rather nefarious interpretation of a very innocent enterprise. I have things to tend to, and he is inhibiting my completion of them in that regard._

Jesus.

_Just tell him you're busy._

Send.

_That won't do. I'd rather you text him and tell him something like…well. That we have plans._

Molly's eyes grew wide.

_I see. You want me to take part in your vile games._

Send. She'll play. She was liking this.

_If you like._

She did, damn it all.

_Alright, Mycroft. I'll text Sherlock. _

Send.

_Much obliged. I owe you._

She sent Sherlock the text and sighed. She should have Mycroft make it up to her….

* * *

Two days later, and Molly decided to text her friend who she was in love with.

Mycroft.

Yes…she was in love with him.

Silly, really, when she thought about it. He was in a very different place from her.

Established.

Important.

There was nothing particularly important about Molly, and she lamented her prosaic self.

But _he _was interesting and exciting and knew exciting and interesting things.

And he wasn't a dick.

So, she decided, it was a much better endeavor, falling in love with _this_ brother. Likely to hurt much less, since he had a least a modicum of tact.

_Fancy some lunch?_

Send.

She tapped her finger on her phone.

_Lovely. Where?_

She smiled.

_Wherever. I haven't eaten yet._

Send.

_I'll send a car._

She clapped her hands together and went to ready herself.

….half an hour later…

The car was waiting for her, and Molly jumped in.

They sped along, and ended up at Mycroft's office.

* * *

Mycroft was sitting at his desk, the fish and chips were placed at the table by the window.

And he thought about how lovely things were between he and Molly.

And he hoped that he was being a good and attentive friend.

He had long since abandoned any romantic inclinations, for though his feeling was profound, his reason told him that she was not to be touched in that way; her love for his brother likely clouding any inclination she may feel toward another.

But he had her friendship, and that, he supposed, would need to suffice. He was unaccustomed to friendship. To any intimate relationships of any sort, really. It would be a desirable learning experience for him, and he would have the added pleasure of being in Molly's close company.

"Hey Mycroft," as she entered. "I smell chips," and she smiled and went to the table.

"Very keen sense of smell, Molly. I daresay that the scent is overpowering," and he stood to join her.

"Shut up, you," she replied, sitting. "How was Sherlock? Did he chastise you for abandoning him the other night?" and she bit into a chip.

"On the contrary. He hardly said a word."

Odd that, she thought. "Oh…well then," and she fidgeted a touch.

He read her reaction as her disappointment in being unable to discuss his brother further. "He's a strange sort, Molly…"

"I know it."

"He…cares for you, you know."

Her eyes pinched at this. "Yeah?"

"Of course he does."

"It doesn't matter…I'm really over trying to figure him out."

"What do you mean?"

She smiled. "I _mean _he is an arse, and I don't need him to reciprocate any feeling I might have had."

Mycroft was uneasy. This was strange, indeed…he would need to see Sherlock.

* * *

"I have heard all of this before, Mrs. Sinclair. I honestly don't care if your husband is cheating on you," said the detective, standing.

"But…is he…? I thought that…"

"Of course he is! What do you think?" and he ushered her out.

And Mycroft was standing right there.

"Well, Mycroft. Fancy seeing you. Mrs. Sinclair was just leaving…"

"But…"

"I can recommend an excellent lawyer. Send me an email."

And Sherlock turned into the sitting room and switched the computer on. "How are you, brother?"

"Well enough," and he sat.

Sherlock nodded. "And did you have a nice time with Molly?"

"Yes."

"You are seeing her quite a lot, you know."

"I am. She happens to be a friend."

"So much for goldfish."

And Mycroft winced at the exact words he had spoken to himself in his reverie a few months previous.

Sherlock looked at him. "You are in love with her."

"Don't be silly."

"I'm not," and he sat back, and crossed his arms in front of him. "You. Love. Her."

"Absurd," and he laughed.

Sherlock pointed at him. "Tell her, Mycroft. Or you'll lose her."

"Tell her?….there's nothing to tell."

"Liar."

"Sherlock…I am here to alert you to the fact that it appears that Molly is over you. You have missed your chance."

"So much the better," he replied. "Allows you the opportunity to make your move," he ended dramatically.

"Stop being so preposterously ridiculous."

"I am doing no such thing, Mycroft. And you had better see to it. She won't wait forever."

"I am through listening to this rubbish," and he got up and left.

Sherlock got up and watched his older brother walk down Baker Street.

How much he loved him, he couldn't rightly say.

He loved him for always looking out for him.

He loved him for taking care of him when mummy was at her wits end and dad was in the garden, too absorbed to care.

He loved him for saving his life.

He loved him so much that he just abandoned any hope of ever winning the only woman he ever loved.

For his sake.

Because Mycroft needed her more than he did.

Because Mycroft was alone.

Lonely.

"You had better deserve this, brother mine."

And a thought swam in front of his mind's eye….

Holidays, with Molly, on his brother's arm…

And he winced and sighed.

He picked up his violin.

And it sang a melancholy tune.


	14. Chapter 14

Sometimes in life we are blinded by the conceit that we are supposed to behave in a certain way, merely because it has always been so. We are expected to do such and such because people expect it from us, and to do otherwise would be too out of character to abide.

Mycroft Holmes was expected to not fall in love.

Molly Hooper was expected to pine away for Sherlock Holmes forever.

And Sherlock Holmes was expected to be an arse and only think of himself.

None of these things remained true.

All of them, then, had come to fruition, and Mycroft was walking back to his flat, skipping the rest of the day at work in favor of some alcoholic libation in the form of brandy.

He was walking, it was raining, and he didn't notice.

The umbrella was being held fast in his hand, as though he was convinced that letting go of it would mean the death of him.

He seemed to care little for the fact that he was slowly becoming soaked, and the fact that he wouldn't release his strangle hold was resulting in his becoming steadily more wet. This would surely yield a cold.

But colds are of little consequence when one has a very important position in a very important nation; they matter even less when one is violently in love with delightful pathologists.

Violently, to be sure, despite his indifferent demeanor.

At least, as violent as Mr. Holmes would allow himself to feel. Which really, isn't all that much.

He reached his flat and threw his umbrella on the floor.

He rubbed his hands over his face, soaked with rain water.

He loved Molly.

Molly didn't love Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't love Molly.

There was but one piece missing from this now…did Molly love him?

How could it be so?

How could she possibly?

Over and over he pondered it, while his clothes dripped their sopping melancholy ridden fabric all over his hardwood floors.

Mycroft went to his bedroom and changed his clothes.

He poured himself some brandy, lit a fire, and sat.

Sherlock was always so engaging…even when people hated him, they loved him. His passion was intoxicating, and it spread from person to person and he lit their lives with his heat.

Mycroft, he was more subdued. More difficult to figure. More unreachable, unattainable, stiff. Aloof.

He had built walls, and he resided behind them comfortably. He as content…

But he had a fire, and it burned…the ash so recently blown askew in its frail weight…it now was rekindled, and he felt it acutely.

Nothing was ever accomplished by sitting on one's arse.

Nothing in life was ever worth having if one was never hurt, or embarrassed, or scared.

Trouble was, was Mycroft was so seldom these things; his experience woefully limited, he wondered at his ability to overcome, and then to charm, and then to confess.

He looked out of his window.

Getting dark.

Do this tomorrow…his heart told him.

Best to get it over with…said his mind.

And because Mycroft always listened to his reason, he got up to change into some clothes.

* * *

The door clicked shut behind her.

She sighed her obligatory sigh.

And she dropped her keys into the bowl on the little table beside her door.

There…there was the fiend. "Hi Toby," said Molly. "Hungry, then?"

She loved that cat…despite the fact that he was a huge pain.

But then, so were most of the people in Molly's life.

Molly opened the cat food, poured it into the bowl and put the kettle on.

She hummed a tune in an effort to quell the grey which filled her vision…her melancholy…it reared its indifferent visage.

Soup.

She was rather sick of soup.

But it didn't matter, not really.

A child today…she cut open a child…and the truth of it, the finality of everything descended upon her…

A tear fell down her cheek.

What was life if not for love?

And she stirred her soup.

What good was anything if you didn't have that thing…that precious thing…in your life?

Molly didn't have much.

She had even less people.

But she was in love, and that shouldn't be ignored.

Damn it all.

She should just tell him…what was the worst that could happen…?

She sat down and grabbed a book, blowing on a spoonful of soup.

And she swallowed the warm liquid, and decided that she would tell him. She was tired of being silent to save face.

She had behaved that way where Sherlock, the great git, was concerned. She wouldn't do it anymore.

She would tell Mycroft that she was in love with him, and see what happened.

Molly had just finished up the dishes, had cleaned the mess from earlier today, when the bell rang.

She couldn't think who on earth would be bothering her at this hour…she looked at the time. Half-passed eight.

She dried her hands and went to the door to look through the peep-hole.

Mycroft.

Molly swallowed.

She wasn't ready just _yet_ to say something to him…

But she unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hi Mycroft," she said, smiling.

He nodded. "Molly," and he cleared his throat. "Apologies for arriving here so late in the day unannounced…might I come in?"

"Sure," and she stood aside. "So…what brings you by?"

_Your inescapable beauty…your smiling soul…_"I was in the neighborhood, and it suddenly dawned on me that you lived nearby…"

Molly nodded. "Want some tea?"

"Thank you," and he sat.

He took in her flat…

It was unremarkable.

There was a fair amount of books…the furniture was well crafted. She seemed to like the color blue…it was in abundance in different shades and hues.

She returned with the tea and sat down. "So…you'll forgive me, but it is rather odd…why are you here?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Molly…have you ever experienced something…something profound and moving…and though you knew that it would be an acute error to act in any way regarding this thing, you felt pressed to chase it?"

Molly looked at him uncertainly. "Um…I'm not sure."

He sat his tea down. "Allow me to rephrase…" this was much more difficult than he had imagined it would be…"Have you ever…" and he looked away. "Been in love?"

What. "Sure."

"Quite…and so you understand the illogical state that it so often leaves one in."

"Are you talking about Sherlock? Because I don't think that he is in love with me…"

"No, Molly, no…No, I'm not talking about my brother…"

She raised her eyebrows, and then they fell once more. "Mycroft, look, it is rather tiresome…trying to decipher your meaning…"

And he stood now. "Of course. Well…here is the thing, Molly…" he turned away. "I was in love once, a very long time ago," and he began to pace a touch. "A very, very long time ago…and I would not allow myself to ever become enraptured by the feel of want…not since that debacle."

"What happened?"

"I chose work over her," he said, looking at her, then turning once more.

"Shocking, that," and she giggled.

He smiled. "Just so. At any rate, not many people know about this interlude in my life…not many care enough to know, and fewer still I desire for them to have this intimate knowledge."

"Well, thanks for trusting me with it, Mycroft."

He put his hands in his pockets, and looked at his feet. "Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you…ever…that is to say…you already answered…but what has your experience been like in relation to that singular state?"

Molly's eyes found her own feet. "Um…well…." she didn't talk about it much, mostly because she rather thought that her experience made her look fanciful and ridiculous in front of and in comparison to others. "I have been in love, several times."

"Is that so?" he asked, sitting across from her once more.

She nodded. "Yeah…in secondary school…there were two blokes. Neither one cared much for me. Then at Uni…I had a boyfriend…he was lovely…" and she looked to the ceiling. "And then, after Uni…I got a job at a smallish hospital, and I fell in love with one of my coworkers. And then again, I fell in love with this fellow, he was so sick…he had cancer, you know…" and some liquid filled her eyes…"…quite a bit older than me. It hurt something awful when he passed. Then Sherlock…he was safe…I'd been hurt…but I don't know if you could call it love…and Tom," she finished. She looked uncertainly at him. And looked away again. "And now…there's another…I am doomed, Mycroft…I fall so easily…"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," and she stood. "I mean, that once more I have let myself go, and I am in love. And I promised myself so faithfully that I'd be more careful…that I wouldn't just blindly follow my heart, letting it take over. That I'd use my head…"

"Your head, Molly, when it comes to matters such as these, is hardly useful," and he thought that he was too late…

"You're right. And perhaps I should just go for broke," and she walked over to the window. "Because it is _you _Mycroft, that I am in love with…and I know that I just made myself an idiot, and you'll never reciprocate," she finished, slumping into a chair.

His heart did stop momentarily.

His must have misheard.

He turned in his chair to gain a better view of her…

She held her face in her hands, and was shaking a bit.

He stood and went to her.

He knelt before her, and took her hands away from her face. "Molly?" he asked, searching her eyes in desperation. "Did you just tell me that you are in love with me?"

She nodded, and tears spilled.

"My god," he said. "I am a fool."

"What do you mean?"

He held her hands tight. "Because, dearest, I am in love with you, and I came here to tell you…to declare myself and to be prepared for you to dismiss me…yet here you are…you divine creature…and it is _you _who first uttered the words. My brave, brave, brave, Molly…"

"What?" and she laughed. "You love me?"

"With everything that I am," and he wiped some tears away.

She threw her arms around his neck and laughed her tears of relief. "Say it," she whispered.

"I love you, Molly…you are my joy…"

Mycroft pulled away from her, and cupped her face…

…it had been so very long…

He leaned in toward her, and claimed her lips in his, his eyes closing to relish it.

And it was a sweet recollection, despite the heartache.

But Molly's kiss was wholly unique and he savored the taste.

And as it deepened, and Molly glowed, the pair became lost in the silent still of the moment, forgetting everything until they toppled onto the floor in a heap.

She laughed…

And so did he…

Until he swallowed and began to search her face for permission…

Her eyes did answer…and so he took off her shirt…and shed his own…

And they made love on her sitting room floor.

"Love is funny," Molly observed in the afterglow.

"How so?"

"I never would have thought that my association with Sherlock…all of the misadventures…would have landed me here. In my mad pursuit of a Knight in Shining Armor, I found myself a subtle prince."

"You are too generous in your compliments, Molly. I am no prince."

"You are to me," and she kissed his cheek.

He laughed. "No…I am more like a ridiculous professor, haughty in his office, wielding an umbrella…"

"Fine…then I am your enraptured young student…" she eyed him wickedly.

"That, Miss Hooper, is a metaphor I am most eager to examine…"

And the lovers continued on in the heat of new love.

And Sherlock kept his mouth shut when it came to his brother's girlfriend, never really feeling hostile, happy that he found happiness, even if it was at his own expense.

And every year, Mycroft would take Molly to Paris, and leave his umbrella behind.

* * *

_A/N: The end! Thank you everyone who reviewed, and followed, favorited! I really never thought that this story would become as popular as it did! I had a reviewer say that they wished for Sherlock and Mycroft to battle it out for Molly. **THAT** is an interesting idea...and one that I might just explore in a couple of months! The only trouble is...who would win her?! I love all of them so much! _

_Thanks again for reading my little tale._


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